


Voice Like a Bell

by ink_asunder



Category: A Bigger Splash (2015)
Genre: ASL, Cross-Posted on Wattpad, F/F, Friendship, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Retelling, Romance, Signing Characters, Slightly Altered Timeline, past self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2020-09-28 03:07:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20418887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ink_asunder/pseuds/ink_asunder
Summary: A filmmaker and a famous rockstar's vacation is interrupted when a former lover brings his two daughters for a surprise visit. Tensions arise among the group until their peaceful Sicilian getaway takes a dangerous turn.





	1. Mazzy Bell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An old friend visits Marianne and Paul, and he's brought two surprises with him.

After spending a portion of their vacation in blissful solitude, Marianne and Paul were surprised but resigned when they got a call from their old friend saying he'd be landing at the airport for a visit shortly. And by "shortly," he meant "in a few minutes," and he expected to see them there. He said he had a surprise for them. Once Marianne saw him, she was overcome with delight again. She and Harry embraced and clung to each other while Paul watched on with disinterest.

Then a moment later, as Harry was assuring Marianne that he'd get her to sing again, two young women passed through the automatic doors. One was blonde and wore a pair of sunglasses, the other was dark-haired and fiddled with a pair of earbuds before shoving them in her pocket.

Harry pulled them aside and held them very close, one in each arm.

"Oh, girls, girls! Meet Marianne and Paul," Harry gestured between the two young women and his friends. "You two, this is Penelope and Mazzy."

"Oh, you brought your proteges," Paul said, laying out a hand for one of them to shake. "Nice to meet you two."

"We're his daughters," Penelope smiled while shaking Paul's hand.

"Hi," Mazzy took his hand, which had gone limp with shock.

Neither Paul nor Marianne knew how to react. They supposed it was inevitable for Harry to have offspring somewhere. But for Harry to not only find two of said offspring but also bring them both with him on this vacation with no prior warning was enough to take his friends off guard.

"Excuse me?" Paul asked, but Harry just burst out laughing.

"The looks on your faces! I'm sorry, I should have warned you. Everyone's making the same mistake. Pen, Maz, say hello."

"Hey," Mazzy waved.

"Hi!" Pen smiled. "Yeah, he really loves it though."

"She seems shy, but she really is a lovely bitch just like her mother, She is every inch my daughter, aren't you?" As Harry spoke, he held Pen by the shoulders and kissed her hair. He did no such thing to Mazzy.

"Where are your wheels? Let's go." Harry said.

"Uh, right in front," Paul answered and the group of five headed to the Jeep.

* * *

After a few minutes' drive during which Harry talked a mile a minute, Paul parked where Harry indicated, and the group began trekking up a winding, dirt path to a little restaurant at the top of the hill.

"Harry, come on, that's a grave," Paul scolded as the other man stopped to piss by the side of the path.

"Well, Europe's a grave," Harry retorted.

A little ways down the path, the girls stopped, leaning on foundation and trees by the path to give the others time to catch up. Paul reached them first.

"So when did this happen, you two and Harry?"

"Last year," Pen started. "I finally put some pieces together and figured it out."

Paul nodded. "You two on college break? On your Grand Tour?"

"Yep. Normally I'd be spending the summer in Connecticut with my mother, but she gets sick of me. Annie!" Penelope gave Marianne a look, and Marianne gave an open-mouthed nod. "She gets sick of me and she just ships me off somewhere. This year, it was to Harry."

"And you?" Paul turned to Mazzy.

"Yeah, I just finished my second year. I figured it would be nice to get some time with the other side of the family during break."

Maz caught sight of Harry heading up the path towards them, and she and Pen stood and walked further on. Pen takes Marianne's hand, and Mazzy simply watches them.

* * *

Once at the restaurant, the group of five settled into a comfortable but near-aimless conversation. They had so much to catch up on, but none of them seemed eager to talk about anything personal yet.

Harry looked deliberately at Marianne. "So what are you going to have?"

"_No_," Paul snapped. "She can't talk, alright?"

"I would love a daiquiri," Marianne rasped, clutching her throat.

"Marianne," Paul scolded.

Harry slammed his hand on the table and ordered five. Maz looked at Marianne and wagged a hand to get her attention.

"Can you sign?" she asked, moving her hands in a manner that the others guessed was her signing the question.

Marianne's head tottered side to side as she made a 'so-so' gesture with her hand, then pointed at Maz, casually mouthing 'you sign?' Maz nodded and sat back a bit.

"I've been taking a couple years, and I volunteer for the deaf community back home."

Marianne's face lit up and she signed something.

"What's that, Marianne?" Harry leaned forward, and Paul hit him.

"Not really," Mazzy admitted, staying focused on Marianne. "It's not like I can make it my career or anything, but... I just like talking with people, and I think it helps."

Marianne continued to beam and nudged Paul excitedly. Paul seemed preoccupied. He didn't drink his daiquiri when it came. But, for a neglected fact, neither did Maz. Instead, Maz slid her glass over to Penelope; she'd take it if she wanted it.

Harry looked at Mazzy. "You don't have to DD for everyone. You don't even have an international license, so drink up."

"I have an allergy?" she reminded him in a mild, possibly-irritated tone, then he ordered a glass of water for her.

"So you're name's Mazzy?" Paul asked. "Or Maz?"

"Mazzy," she clarified. "Like Mazzy Star? They were popular enough in 1992."

"I see," Paul nodded. "So, your mother is...? If you don't mind me asking."

"Oh, she's just--"

"Marianne, Paul's headaches, are they a problem here?" Harry leaned towards the woman.

"Harry, stop this fucking shit, all right? She can't talk. I'm not going to repeat it."

"Of course she can talk. When Bjork had her operation, after two weeks she was—"

"I don't give a fuck what Bjork said, alright?" Paul snapped. "Or Adele."

'Fuck off,' Marianne mouthed as she held her hand out to stop him.

"No. Nothing's a problem here. Nothing a few Nurofen can't take care of," Paul concluded.

Marianne started begging at this point, doubling over and folding her hands in a prayer-like motion. _Please just let it go. _Harry gave her a look and began speaking like the Bridgekeeper in Monty Python.

"_What _is your name? _What _is your favorite color?"

Paul was about to reach forward and deck him but hesitated when Mazzy quietly got out of her chair and stood behind Harry. She kept signing and making a silly face similar to Harry's. Marianne fought a smirk, but Paul wasn't sure who she was reacting to.

Harry just kept talking. "What is your quest?"

Marianne's eyes widened. She was going to have her hands _full_ with these two. One of them wouldn't relent until she talked, and the other.... She glanced up at Mazzy for a final time, and Mazzy winked and signed something sweet. Marianne was going to have to speak or sign so these two didn't drive her crazy.

"To not end up like Julie Andrews. Got it?" Paul said.

Harry waved to a waiter, holding up five fingers to order another round of drinks for the whole table.

"_Tres! Tres!"_ Paul and Maz frantically corrected in unison.

* * *

The evening had turned to night before they left the restaurant. A pleasantly cool breeze gusted around them as they headed back to the car. Harry caught sight of Marianne trying to communicate with Paul.

"What-what-what'd she say?" Harry asked.

"She says her feet hurt," Paul lied.

Marianne scolded him and gestured more insistently.

"No! That's what she said," Paul insisted. "She's getting a blister."

"If you've got something to say, say it to me," Harry told Marianne.

"She's asking you to stay," Paul said at once. Marianne gave him a quick peck on the lips.

"Christ, that took forever," Harry muttered.

"Is there a pool?" Penelope asked, then exchanged an amused look with Mazzy.

* * *

The villa was elegant and minimal. The white house was surrounded by a terrace, a pool, and various, well-kept patches of plants and stone. It was a beautiful and quiet place to vacation. At least it _was _quiet before Harry showed up.

Mazzy lingered in the kitchen as Marianne showed Penelope to the room where the two girls would be staying. Marianne opened the window as Penelope looked about the comfortably small place. She grabbed a small maraca from one of the shelves over the bed.

"You can't talk or won't?" she pivoted to look at Marianne.

Marianne shook her head with a grimace. She made a cutting motion across her throat.

"Cancer?" Penelope mumbled.

Marianne shook her head again, reassuringly this time. She pressed a hand to her chest and mimicked singing. Penelope grinned, shaking the maraca.

"Oh right... your career," she nodded. "Cool."

_Shake, shake, shake, shake._

Marianne nodded. Penelope didn't leave her with that.

"I'm twenty-two, you know," she said.

Marianne sighed and patted Penelope's shoulder dismissively.

Mazzy was still in the kitchen when Marianne got there. Harry scanned the fridge and cabinets, taking inventory no doubt, as Paul fiddled with a blister pack of pills and Mazzy sipped a glass of ice water at the breakfast bar. Marianne came up behind Paul and wrapped an arm around him.

"Terrible," Harry muttered, closing the fridge. "How are you guys living?"

Marianne crossed the room to wrap her arms around him, grinning the entire time. She kissed him once. Twice, actually, and the entire time oblivious at how Mazzy stared at them. Paul tried to brush it off as he pulled Marianne away and gave her a pill and a glass of warm milk. Marianne took the glass and traipsed back down the hallway, gargling the whole way.

"Goodnight," Harry called softly after her.

Once she was out of earshot, Harry began talking again.

"She's got tour dates this winter, hasn't she? What's she planning to do?" he asked Paul.

"Well, she's kicked everything into the long grass, and it was the right thing to do," Paul replied.

"Oh, Jesus, man, it's hard to watch," Harry mumbled. "Is she like this when you fuck?"

Paul stifled a chuckle.

"I mean, how does it work? Does she write you a note when she comes?"

"Hey," Paul cut him off, but there was no genuine anger behind it. Still, he shook his head and gestured to Mazzy, who had taken to staring intently at the countertop.

"What?" Harry argued. "How old do you think she is? She's a grown-up, she can hear grown-ups talking. Isn't that right, Mazzy?"

"I think I'll say goodnight," Mazzy slid off her chair and took her glass with her.

Paul laughed and pushed Harry. "Come on."

Mazzy turned the corner into her and Pen's guest room. Penelope was already dressed in the shorts and camisole she intended to sleep in and was lying in bed. Her suitcase was half-tucked under her bed, whilst Mazzy's luggage remained untouched on the bed on the opposite side of the room. Mazzy shut the door and shuffled through her duffel bag for her pajamas. Penelope glanced up at her.

"Did you say anything to Paul or Marianne?"

Mazzy paused and blinked. "No. Of course not."

Penelope smiled at her and rolled over in bed. "Alright. Goodnight."

"Night," Mazzy returned, then she continued looking through her duffel bag. It wasn't really her business if Pen wanted to lie about her age. In truth, Mazzy was willing to bet Pen would have to grow up a little before anyone treated her like she was twenty-two anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, just a quick note that I won't be writing this entire story strictly in the format of "retelling the original source material scene-by-scene but with OC" because I think those stories are potentially boring and hard to get through. This was just a jumping off point that wasn't so OC-centric that it alienated my audience entirely.
> 
> Also, I just want to give a full disclosure now before anyone gets too invested: this story is rated mature for sexuality and referencing past self-harm and suicide attempts. All characters are in recovery, and none of the characters relapse! But I wanted to give a quick warning for anyone who might find that potentially upsetting to read about.
> 
> The title of the work is a reference to the song "Voice Like a Bell" by Gregory and the Hawk, and Mazzy's name is a reference to Mazzy star and Nicole Dollanganger's true name "Nicole Bell."


	2. Snake

The next morning, Harry was preparing breakfast with Clara in the kitchen, making a ruckus the entire time. When Marianne navigated around him, she was horrified to find the fridge had been completely filled with bottles of wine. Marianne gave him a wordless look of horror, because that was all she could do.

"What?" Harry asked. "I've got you fully stocked. Some cucumbers for Paul, and a little bit of heaven for everyone else. Oh, I also got a juice in there for Mazzy, have a look."

Marianne retrieved said juice, a bottle of orange juice that couldn't hold more than 12 ounces at most. She handed it over the counter to Mazzy, who was almost too embarrassed to take it.

* * *

"Have you seen my iPod?" Penelope asked once Mazzy returned to their room, juice in hand. Mazzy leaned against her bed and watched Penelope search her bags for a second.

"Don't fuss about it; he took mine too," Mazzy said. Penelope stopped looking and turned to Mazzy. Mazzy turned to her own luggage. "I mean, he took all my _CDs_, but..." She turned back around, holding up a small, square, travel CD player. "He left the CD player."

Penelope gave her a look, then they both started laughing.

"Well, he left this for me," Penelope said, grabbing a CD case from where it laid on the bed. Mazzy blinked. "It's some of Marianne's music."

"Oh," Mazzy shifted. "Well, you can listen to it, if you want."

She left the CD player on the table in between the two beds and headed for the door.

"I'm going out to the patio."

* * *

After breakfast, everyone headed outside. Paul lounged by the pool, and Mazzy wandered aimlessly around the area looking for rocks or bugs or whatever. Harry and Marianne were sitting in the shade of the patio by the house, Harry reading out loud from a book as Marianne cut his hair. For a while, Harry's voice was the only thing of note to hear until Marianne's gaze wandered to the driveway. She froze and whistled at the others as loudly as she could manage. Paul and Mazzy looked at her, and she pointed to the path and made a slithering motion with her arm.

Paul saw the snake wagging up the path towards the house and stood up to get it.

"What the fuck's that?" Harry asked. Marianne let out a terse hiss. "Is that a snake?"

Marianne hit him.

Mazzy was bounding ahead of Paul. "Wait, I'll get it!"

"Don't run!" But Paul left her to it.

The short-haired girl crouched in front of the snake, grabbed it by the neck, and started wrapping it around her arm.

"Well, look at that," Harry said. "She'll hardly talk to people, but give her a fucking snake and they're fast friends."

Marianne's expression was one of horror. Mazzy held up the snake, still standing in the driveway.

"Marianne, look!"

Marianne recoiled, standing on the chair as if Mazzy might throw it at her. As if Mazzy could throw a snake the hundred feet she'd need to for it to end up anywhere near them.

"Don't bring that over here," Paul called over his shoulder as he headed towards the shady patio. Fortunately, Mazzy didn't push the issue. She just shrugged, plopped down by the side of the driveway, and took out her phone to take pictures with the snake.

Marianne sat back down but watched Mazzy anxiously. She was only able to tear her eyes away when another girl joined them.

"How's the room of the ass?" Pen asked Harry.

"Delightful. How's the room of the monk?"

They kissed. Marianne looked back at Mazzy, who was now distracted by a new car pulling up behind the Jeep. Harry stood up and began shouting excitedly at the strangers that got out of the car and started towards the house. Marianne stood and began to protest in her silent, _reliant_ way, but Harry wasn't having it.

Mazzy released the snake into the grass and glared tentatively at the strangers. Luckily, they walked right past her at first to greet Harry and the others. Mazzy tried sneaking around them to get back to the house.

_"But you'll sing again, won't you? This is not forever."_

"Guess who I am?" Pen asked. Mireille's face lit up as she approached Pen where she was sitting.

"So lovely, you're daddy's little rascal, we've heard so much about you!"

The woman turned around and caught sight of Mazzy.

"Ah, and you must be his other one!" she exclaimed, heading forward with her hand extended like she wanted Mazzy to shake it. Mazzy held up her hands a bit awkwardly and backed up.

"I have to wash my hands," she said, then disappeared inside the house.

"Are you sure she's yours, Harry?" the woman laughed. 

Marianne couldn't help the smirk that tugged at her lips as she sat back down.

* * *

From the sink by the kitchen window, Mazzy could faintly hear them talking. Maybe that's why she stayed inside so long. The deck was unusually quiet when Mazzy returned, and after a moment of lingering just inside the doorway and eavesdropping, she understood why.

"It's the height of vanity, no?" Sylvie was talking quietly. "Imagine her embarrassment when she discovered that she lived."

"Well, you know..." Harry was unusually quiet. "No one should be ashamed."

"No," Sylvie breathed. "No... I tell her to call me if she feels it coming over her again, but now, every time the phone rings, I resent her a little more—"

A glass shattered on the stone. Mazzy jumped. Paul's head snapped up, and he gave Mazzy a bewildered look. Marianne twisted in her chair to follow his unsettled gaze, but she only caught a glimpse of Mazzy's sundress before she disappeared completely.

"Well, you can't live forever," Pen said.

"Marianne will," Harry said, but Pen just stood and began walking away. "Ah, we've bored her. Say, Pen, why don't you go get your sister?"

"What?" Pen stopped and half-turned. No one had called Mazzy her sister before.

Harry pointed to the door. "Tell her to bring out her guitar; I want her to show off."

Pen wordlessly did as asked. Marianne shared a look with Paul. She knew Harry was just trying to recover the social atmosphere. It was simply his nature, so she tried not to be annoyed with him. But she knew that if Mazzy did come out and perform for the guests, it would more than likely turn into another conversation about Marianne's career and her condition and how she used to be. And neither Marianne nor Paul were up for that. Hopefully Mazzy could pull through and dominate the situation for once like her estranged father was so good at doing.

"Hey," Penelope said as she turned the corner into her and Mazzy's bedroom. Mazzy looked up from where she was sitting and tuning her guitar. Pen gestured to the guitar. "Want to bring that outside? Harry's friends want to hear you."

Mazzy shrugged and followed Penelope back out. Harry started up a round of applause when Mazzy emerged on the patio. They made room for her on the couch, bringing over chairs from the terrace when needed. Harry turned one of the terrace chairs backwards and straddled it, and Penelope stood behind him with her arms draped around his shoulders.

Once the applause died down, Mazzy glanced at her small crowd of six, and pretended they were all deaf.

"Well, I'm not much of a performer," Mazzy mumbled. "But, um... whatever."

She shook her head to clear it and began strumming a few chords on her guitar. Several of them recognized the song soon enough. Mazzy kept her eyes on the table as she sang along. It was true, she wasn't a rockstar. Her stage fright wouldn't allow it. But she had talent, and if she'd just raise her head or smile a little, she might have a career in front of her.

_ "But I'm in so deep..._

_ Y'know I'm such a fool for you._

_ You got me wrapped around your finger..."_

Mazzy tentatively glanced up at Marianne. Marianne gave her a smile to reassure her, but she wasn't sure if it worked. Mazzy blushed and looked back down, fighting a smile and struggling to keep her voice under control.

_"Do you have to, do you have to let it linger?"_

Mazzy continued to play, getting more comfortable with her audience and giving Marianne lingering glances every so often.

Harry leaned towards Marianne and whispered. "You see that? I think she likes you, Marianne. Is she a fan, you think?"

Marianne lightly slapped his shoulder and put her finger to her lips to shush him. Mazzy was still playing.

* * *

She had to be a fan. Had to be. For her first couple days there, Mazzy gravitated towards Marianne more than the others, and Marianne didn't fight it. But she truly was like her father. She was persistent, charismatic, and whilst she wasn't necessarily extroverted, once she and Marianne were alone, Marianne couldn't get her to shut up. She talked constantly, though not impolitely, about anything. She mumbled along about her college classes, her pets, her annoying but admittedly harmless family, and anything else.

They were in the kitchen, and Mazzy was leaning on the counter watching Marianne wipe down the counters and moving out of her way every so often.

"So when'd you learn how to sign?" Mazzy surprised Marianne by asking.

Marianne just made a couple of flippant signs, hardly looking at Mazzy. "Don't remember."

"You don't do it a lot," Mazzy noted. "Is that because no one else around here signs?"

Marianne made another sign. "Right."

"Well, you can sign with me," Mazzy said. "I won't laugh at you."

Marianne gave her an exasperated look and gestured to the counter. She signed, "I'm _busy_."

"Oh, yeah," Mazzy muttered. "Sorry about that..."

Marianne was kind of surprised that was all it took to deter her. Maybe Mazzy did understand the concept of boundaries.

* * *

Sylvie was over again, and everyone, (save Mazzy), hung out by the pool in the afternoon. At one point while the others were otherwise occupied, Marianne headed inside for a break. Mazzy had complained of a headache earlier and hadn't been seen all day, so Marianne was surprised to meet her in the kitchen then. Mazzy stood at the sink, filling a tea kettle with water from the tap.

"Hey," Mazzy smiled when she saw Marianne.

Marianne signed when Mazzy was looking at her. "Are you feeling better?"

"Yeah," Mazzy replied. "Want me to make you a drink? I'm making tea."

"Tea's fine," Marianne signed. More interesting than water, but nowhere near as tedious as alcohol. Besides, some tea might soothe her throat.

"'Kay," Mazzy nodded. "I'll bring it to the sitting room in a minute."

Marianne nodded once more and headed to the light, open common room.

She reclined on one end of the sofa and dozed peacefully in the temporary quiet moment she was given. The sunlight streaming through the windows and open doorway bathed the room in a warm glow. A gentle breeze tugged at the sheer white drapes, and the rustling of the fabric was only one of the many small, distant sounds Marianne no longer had to strain to hear. A beetle chirped as it crawled across the deck. The wind rattled in the dry grass. A flock of sea birds cried as they circled over the island. On the other side of the house, Harry and the others talked and laughed loudly, but to Marianne it was just another sensation so distant from her that it was easy to ignore.

And then the moment was over. Mazzy tiptoed around the corner with a small tray in her arms. She set the tray on the coffee table.

"I brought honey and sugar," she said as she tucked her sundress under her and settled down on the other end of the sofa.

Marianne reached for one of the cups and folded her legs to give Mazzy a fair share of the furniture. Then she looked at Mazzy. The younger woman leaned on her arm, which was propped up on the arm of the couch, while her other arm draped over the back of the couch closer to Marianne. Mazzy just gazed out the doorway in front of them.

"I think I like it here," she said. "I don't want to say anything bad about Harry, but I feel like he just knows too many people. And Pen's... fine. But I like being around you, it's nice."

Marianne gave her an amused look. Mazzy had a set of bracelets around her wrist, one of which was a string of wooden beads with a single orb of turquoise in the middle. Mazzy caught her staring, so Marianne took the opportunity as she saw it.

"I like your bracelet," she signed.

Mazzy watched Marianne sign, glanced at the bracelet, then looked back at Marianne. She didn't seem to take a moment to consider it further; she just took the bracelet off and slipped it around Marianne's wrist.

"You can have it," Mazzy smirked at her. Marianne started to protest, but Mazzy interrupted her. "Don't even worry about it. It's yours."

Marianne relaxed back on the couch and looked at the bracelet more closely. Her old suspicions were brought to the front of her mind again, and she gave Mazzy a coy smile.

"Are you a fan?" she signed.

"Hm?" Mazzy tilted her head. "I don't know that sign, I'm sorry."

Marianne sighed, but considered how to rephrase it for a moment. When she signed again, her movements were slower and more spaced out, simply from her uncertainty about being misunderstood.

"You like my work?" she asked.

"Oh," Mazzy shrugged. "I've never heard of you, really. Harry mentioned that you did music, but I haven't listened to any of it. And you know how he is; by the time you ask him about something, he's already breezed through five other topics."

Marianne grinned and rolled her eyes away momentarily. It didn't help anyone's case that 'doing music' was a lot different than being a rockstar. It wasn't Mazzy's fault for misunderstanding, though, and Marianne didn't feel pressed to correct her. It made her feel much better knowing, or at least being told, that Mazzy wasn't just around because she wanted an autograph or a new album.

"You like music," Marianne signed. That's all she needed to do to redirect the conversation.

"Yeah," Mazzy blushed. "I hope I didn't embarrass myself yesterday. Harry said they loved it, but he's kinda full of it."

"He knows that sort of thing," Marianne defended. "He could help you."

"No, it's not him, it's me," Mazzy clarified in a dismissive way. "I'm too shy. Why do you think I only play for deaf people?"

Then they both laughed. Mazzy's laugh was a rich, clear sound, and Marianne's was an inaudible rasp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mazzy sang "Linger" by the Cranberries, and the chapter title is a reference to the song "Snake" by Nicole Dollanganger.


	3. Boyish

Sylvie and Mireille were over again. They arrived about an hour before noon, during which time, everyone relaxed by the pool waiting for lunch to be cooked and served. Even Mazzy was out and about this time, pacing barefoot around the landing and taking instant pictures with a light pink Instax camera. Perhaps she was beginning to warm up to Harry's friends, loud and excitable as they seemed to her.

This was a quieter morning, thankfully. Mireille sat in the shade closer to the house, chatting with Pen and Marianne. If she noticed the latter of them didn't look very engaged, she was too polite to say anything. Marianne politely heard out whatever story Mireille was recounting, but in the midst of it, she couldn't help but let her gaze follow Mazzy for a short moment. The woman trotted along the edge of the pool towards Sylvie intently. Sylvie was sunbathing in one of the pool-side loungers, but she sat up as soon as she noticed Mazzy waving at her.

Sylvie sat up and tucked her legs up under her. She straightened her sunglasses with a bright, teeth-bearing smile.

"Can I take a picture of you?" Mazzy held up her camera and pointed to it with her free hand.

"Of course!" Sylvie said. She shifted on the chair and struck a pose, folding one leg with her knee up, draping one of her arms across that knee, and tilting her head at the slightest angle, all while maintaining her bright smile. Mazzy leaned back a couple feet and snapped the shot. When the small picture rolled out the top f the camera with a mechanical hum, Mazzy pulled the picture out delicately by its edge and set it face down on the lounger beside Sylvie.

"Now we wait." 

Mazzy bounced on her heels, twisting back and forth idly like she didn't want to hover by Sylvie for the one minute it would take for the photo to develop. She knew she couldn't just leave and come back so soon, so for now she just stood there. She was pretending to look for another place to take a picture when Sylvie spoke up.

"You're a photographer _and_ a singer?" she asked, leaning towards Mazzy a little bit. Mazzy gave her a humbled smirk.

"No, they're just dumb hobbies, really..."

"Oh." Sylvie glanced down at the picture then back up at Mazzy. "What _will_ you do, then?"

"For what?"

"For your life."

Mazzy blinked at her, dumbfounded. She wanted to answer quickly so that Sylvie wouldn't catch on to how much it bothered her, but... no matter what, she just didn't know what to say. But she didn't miss more than a beat until she turned away with a dismissive shrug.

"Maybe I'll be a teacher." She looked at Sylvie out of the corner of her eye. "Or a spy."

Sylvie's eyebrows rose, but Mazzy just started to giggle. Soon enough, Sylvie relaxed and laughed along with her. After a good fit of that, Mazzy picked up the photo from the lounger to see how it turned out. The image itself was only as sharp and clear as an instant photo could be, but the composition and unconventional effect was charming in the way everything nostalgic and vintage was charming to a girl.

"May I see?" Sylvie sat up a little straighter.

"Sure," Mazzy just handed it to her. Sylvie took it carefully by the edges like Mazzy had done.

Sylvie breathed in awe, "_C'est manifique_." She tore her eyes away from the picture and looked at Mazzy again, earnest and almost doe-eyed in her naivete. "You really are good. It's not a dumb hobby."

"Why don't you keep that one?" Mazzy offered. "To remember me by."

Mazzy winked, and Sylvie grinned with delight, thanking the girl as she continued to admire the picture. They both looked up when they were interrupted by Harry shouting.

"Soup's on, girls!"

The two trotted around the pool to the terrace, Sylvie still clinging to the photo. Once they all gathered around the table, shuffling around and taking their places. Sylvie showed the picture around as if to brag. No one seemed quite as excited about it as she did, but it didn't seem to affect her any.

Marianne gave Sylvie a genuine smile and nodded about the picture. "Warming up to" might be a tame way to refer to Mazzy's behavior, now that she thought about it.

* * *

They dined on a breaded fish Clara and Harry had prepared that morning. They talked aimlessly as they always did, and thankfully no one brought up suicide or addiction or music this time. They talked about the past—particularly the pieces of the past wherein Harry and Marianne were still together. Then the conversation drifted to the festival taking place in town that afternoon. Paul had little interest; he and Marianne enjoyed their time alone and away from people. However, social butterflies that they were, Harry and Pen were easily convinced by Mireille, then Harry convinced Marianne, and Marianne convinced Paul. Eventually.

So, a plan was put in place. After brunch, Mireille and Sylvie headed into town early, and the denizens of the villa would get ready and leave shortly.

_Would you pick out a dress for me?_

Had no one invited Mazzy? Or did she not want to go? After getting dressed for their outing, Paul and Marianne headed out to the car, where the rest of the party was allegedly already waiting. Marianne saw Penelope and Harry by the car, but Mazzy was nowhere in sight. Paul waved at the two of them. Harry shouted when he saw them.

"There they are, come on you two! Don't want to keep the girls waiting, do we?" 

Marianne pulled Paul to a halt, signing, "Where's Mazzy?" quickly.

"What?" Maybe she'd signed too quickly and too suddenly for Paul to catch everything.

"His kid," Marianne signed, indicating Harry briefly.

"Uh... I don't know," Paul's shoulders tensed in a wary shrug. He turned to the pair at the car. "Harry! Is Mazzy coming or what?"

"Is she coming?" Harry repeated.

"Yeah, did anyone tell her we were leaving?"

"Oh fuck, I forgot."

Paul turned when he felt Marianne tug out of his grip. He didn't want her to be irritated with any of them.

"Marianne, wait—"

She half-twisted and held up one finger to make sure they didn't leave without her—not that they would—and continued her trek back up to the house.

"She's in our room," she heard Penelope call after her.

Marianne found Mazzy exactly where Pen suggested. Mazzy had put on a pair of shoes and grabbed a light jacket. She seemed to be completely presentable, so why was she still here? Mazzy was sitting by her bedside table, clutching a medium-sized brown suede bag and staring anxiously at a pile of selected accessories and make-up Mazzy had neglected to don for their outing.

Marianne snapped her fingers. The sound brought Mazzy out of her anxious trance and she looked up at the woman blearily. Marianne gestured for Mazzy to come along, and Mazzy realized she was out of time.

"'Kay!" Mazzy shot to her feet, shoved a couple of the accessories in her bag, and followed Marianne out without another thought. If she wanted to wear it so bad, she could just pick something on the way there.

Paul drove them into town. Harry sat in the front seat, chattering away as always, and the three women sat in the backseat. On the way there, Mazzy sorted through the accessories in her bag, and with some feedback from Pen and Marianne, decided upon a set of clip-on earrings and blue-beaded bracelets. She was clearly invested in herself, to an extent. She had to be.

* * *

They met Mireille and Sylvie in the village as promised. The group walked about watching the festival and lamenting about current events. Eventually as the day dragged on, they all went their own ways, appreciating parts of the festival and village and each other as the day seeped slowly into sunset and then evening. Penelope wandered, Mazzy wandered, Paul purposefully wandered taking pictures. Harry and Marianne stayed together, got a drink. "A drink without guilt," Harry had called it, and then he explained himself so he wouldn't upset Marianne too much.

He just kept pushing her. He pushed everyone. He was never afraid to speak his mind, and he wanted everyone else in the world to do the same. And Marianne _couldn't_ oblige him, not now. At this point, a part of her was beginning to wonder whether or not she would, if she could speak. Even so, sometime in the midst of their conversation, Harry cornered her in the gentlest way. Bracing a hand against the wall, looking at Marianne pressed against the wall and looking at and away from him in turns.

He brought up Paul. He brought up their past. Now that they were alone, Marianne realized the full extent of the situation. Jealousy. If he honestly _wanted_ to understand he would.... But until all these previous years, there was something else in the mix to address.

"How're you doing with this?" Harry asked Marianne, pointing to her throat. He leaned down, and she flinched and braced herself against the wall, but he planted only the softest kiss on her collarbone.

Marianne put her fingertips of one hand on his chest dismissively as he backed away.

"What if it doesn't come back? Hmm?"

Marianne threw a hand up in a halfhearted shrug.

"No, it's... it might not come back, have you thought about that?" Harry pressed seriously. Marianne just sighed and looked around them. Harry drew her attention again when he shouted. "It's your fucking life! Your voice is your fucking life."

She sighed and watched him patiently. He'd be through soon enough, though if he'd ever _accept _such a thing, only time would tell.

"No doubt you'll just reinvent yourself," Harry said. "Is wearing your mother's clothes that reinvention?"

Marianne looked him directly in the eyes once more, raising a hand to massage his arm braced against the wall she was leaning against.

"I didn't think so. Anyway, you'll have your 'mummy' phase and I'll have my 'daddy' phase." He chuckled. "But one way or another, we're just gonna grow old together aren't we?"

Marianne pushed off the wall into his arms. She rested her chin on his shoulder and closed her eyes. She'd made a promise not to talk, but it didn't feel remiss of her right now to break it.

"I'm happy, Harry," she breathed. "Can't you stand that?"

They continued to stand there, settled against each other like they were lovers again, enjoying the moment by pretending they were in their own little world for just a little while. Unbeknownst to them, Mazzy had found a higher ground across the street from the unpopulated walkway they were standing in. Mazzy leaned against the building in the shadows and took pictures of their exchange. She could've been eavesdropping, or she might've just liked the composition of the shot and didn't want to interrupt whatever intimate moment they were having.

Whichever it was, Mazzy didn't linger for long after that, lest she be caught by anyone. Mazzy slowly and nonchalantly made her way down the street where the walkway lead to a gorgeous, spacious overlook. Paul and Penelope were already there. Paul took pictures, and Penelope held a half-done cigarette, glaring at Paul and clearly annoyed. When Pen saw Mazzy, she crushed the tip of the cigarette against the stone wall and strolled elsewhere for a bit. Mazzy pretended she didn't notice and moved to lean awkwardly against the wall a few feet away from Paul.

"Come to capture the view?" Paul asked. He wanted to forget whatever had just gone on between him and Pen, so Mazzy's company was a welcome one. Paul nodded to the camera bag hanging down by Mazzy's hip.

Mazzy shrugged and pulled the bag strap off of her neck self-consciously. "Maybe."

"Sylvie showed me the one you took of her," Paul kept taking pictures of the sunset. "You know, she was really proud of it."

"Yeah, they're one of a kind. That's why she likes them so much..." Mazzy muttered, taking her camera in her hands for a moment before pulling out the lens and adjusting the exposure setting.

"Still," Paul said. "You could be good at it. Is that what you're going to school for?"

"No, no! It's just a dumb white girl hobby."

Paul clicked another photo and gave her a look.

"Excuse me?"

Realizing she put her foot in her mouth, Mazzy quickly smirked and corrected herself.

"Come on. Are you collecting instant cameras in a bunch of candy colors, or are you working?"

Paul smirked back. "Nice save."

He went back to shooting, and Mazzy hesitantly watched him for another moment before raising her own camera to take pictures of the town and sky behind them.

* * *

The karaoke bar was all but dead, but by sometime after dark, it was crowded and hopping as Harry and Marianne attempted to dance and attempted to sing respectively. Paul, Penelope, and Mazzy arrived soon after and moved about the crowd throughout the hour.

Mazzy didn't dance and she didn't drink. She just sat at the bar with a glass of water and watched the others. She loved watching Marianne. Right now as it was, she felt like she was seeing part of what Marianne was like when she was a rockstar. Well, not truly. Marianne was still wearing that plain outfit and could barely croak a few words in a line of a song, but a part of her was reaching back, reveling in something she used to have. And Harry was no doubt enabling her.

_Before she lost her voice. _It was another concept that Mazzy had never thought much about. Before you lost your voice and after. Mazzy never asked a deaf person she worked with what life was like before they were deaf. (Most of them were born deaf anyway...) It wasn't like it _mattered,_ really; change and difference made you no _less_ that what you were or could've been. It was a concept Mazzy had trained into herself so forcefully that she'd never considered looking at it another way.

But seeing Marianne dance and whisper along to the music, and seeing how everyone reacted to her, gave Mazzy a dissonant, surreal feeling. Like she wasn't supposed to be there.

* * *

Some time after losing what little voice she had and watching Harry perform a few almost uncomfortably romantic numbers with Pen, Marianne needed a break. Harry queued up another, more upbeat song, but Marianne waved dismissively at him and slipped through the crowd to the restrooms at the back of the bar. She needed a moment alone. The noise of the bar muffled to a near-muted volume when Marianne closed the bathroom door behind her. Her heart still raced, her head still buzzed—though whether it was from the thrill of their performance or the drugs, she couldn't tell.

She leaned on the sink and looked in the mirror, smudging her fingers around her lips, looking at her eyelashes, more as a grounding technique than anything. She continued to watch her appearance when her eyes strayed to the corner of the mirror, where she could see the reflection of someone sitting on the floor of the bathroom stall. Marianne turned around. She thought she was alone.

She would've left it, however, she recognized that dress and those shoes. What was Mazzy doing in the bathroom? Did she drink something and get sick? Marianne slowly, deliberately slowly, stepped to the stall and rapped on the wooden door. The door swung open half-way at a middling speed. Mazzy was sitting in the closest corner of the stall, knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around her knees. She gave Marianne a blank but impatient look, as if to say, "Yeah, you caught me. Now what are you gonna do?"

If she'd been crying or something, it wasn't openly apparent. There were no tears, and her face wasn't excessively flushed. She was just sitting there, kneading her purse with her fingers. She'd taken off her earrings and bracelets, Marianne noticed....

"You O.K.?" Marianne signed monotonously. Mazzy turned away. Marianne nudged Mazzy's hip with her foot. Mazzy looked back up sharply. Marianne held Mazzy's gaze for a moment before signing again.

"Come out with me," she signed, pointing at the bathroom door. 

"I don't want to sing," Mazzy argued. They couldn't make her. Marianne's eyebrow twitched. Did Harry try to persuade her to join in earlier? Marianne shook her head and sailed one flat hand in front of her firmly. _No singing._ Mazzy relaxed, but she still wasn't convinced to leave yet.

"Interpret for me," Marianne signed "interpret" and pointed to Mazzy repeatedly until Mazzy finally rolled her eyes, got to her feet, and went out the door alongside Marianne.

True, it was unlikely Marianne would _need_ an interpreter; it wasn't like anyone who recognized her would come up to her to have a real conversation. But, with Mazzy's knowledge in signing, she was utilitarian in this situation, which made it hard for her to refuse—from a humanitarian standpoint. And as long as it got her out of that fucking bathroom, Marianne called it a win.

Harry had fun with the arrangement. After he'd given out on karaoke, he regrouped with Mazzy and Marianne when he saw them. He'd ask Marianne complex questions and Marianne would cheekily sign whatever the hell she felt like, then Mazzy would awkwardly, (and sometimes completely inaccurately, for Harry's sake), translate.

"What did she say, Maz? What did she say?" Harry nudged Mazzy's shoulder, making her recoil.

"She says I'm tired and I want to go home," Mazzy snapped, getting to her feet.

"Oh, come on, Marianne," Harry turned to the older woman, but Marianne nodded in affirmation. "How do you say that?"

Marianne grinned, but indulged him, showing each sign slowly while he followed along.

"Tired..." Harry mimicked how Marianne held her hands on either side of her chest. "I, yes... want... to go... home."

Marianne shook her head and waved his hands down before demonstrating the sign again.

"Home," Harry repeated. Marianne repeated the sign insistently, her eyebrows high. "Home—for fuck's sake, Marianne!"

Marianne grinned mischievously at him. Harry looked over his shoulder as Paul joined them.

"This is damn near impossible, isn't it?" Harry asked.

"Well, maybe you have an unfair teacher," Paul gave Marianne a look, and she returned it with a grin that showed she was hardly reprimanded. "Are you ready to go?"

"I'll leave it to you, then," Harry nodded, getting to his feet. "I'll go find the girls."

* * *

That night, the house was darker and quieter than usual. After their late night out, they all turned in immediately and most of them slept through the night. Now, only Mazzy was awake, sitting on the sofa in the common room. She'd kept all the lights off, so in the dark there was little more to look at than the moonlit curtains billowing in the midsummer breeze wafting in from the open window. It was the darkest part of the night. Dawn had to be within an hour away now.

Mazzy heard the soft pad of feet approaching her from down the hall. Mazzy turned her head just as a faint outline of a person appeared around the corner.

"Marianne?" Mazzy guessed, since she figured anyone else would've spoken up by now.

Marianne nodded and crawled onto the sofa beside Mazzy. Mazzy could see Marianne's outline moving, but she couldn't make out exact hand shapes or expressions. For the first time, Mazzy flailed her arms up to stop the other.

"Wait. I can't see you." Mazzy turned to get up. "Here, let me turn on a light—"

Marianne snatched her wrist. If they turned a light on now, they might wake the whole house, and Marianne wasn't keen on any _one_ of the others joining them right now. Mazzy froze, still sitting ramrod straight with her feet planted on the ground ready to bolt. Marianne slowly leaned forward until her lips were an inch from Mazzy's ear.

"Let's just stay like this for a little while," she whispered. Mazzy let out a murmur like a half of a word she couldn't form before she settled back on the sofa again. She wrapped an arm around Marianne as the woman settled against her, chin on Mazzy's chest to keep whispering as she pleased.

"Does it hurt to talk like this?" Mazzy whispered.

"Not terribly," Marianne replied. "I can stand it for a little while."

Mazzy didn't say anything.

"Why are you up?" Marianne asked.

"I just am," Mazzy shrugged. "...Is Paul okay?"

Marianne looked down. Her and Mazzy's hands were loosely, absentmindedly entangled.

"He's recovering," she finally answered. "We'd both appreciate it if you didn't bring it up again."

"Okay...."

Marianne had a myriad of things she wanted to ask Mazzy as a follow-up from the events of previous hours. However, she knew her words were limited. Her throat still hurt.

"... Did something happen between you and Harry at the bar?" she rasped.

"Not really. I wanted to get out of there before he saw me."

Did she see his performance with Penelope, or did she leave before then?

"Are you...." Marianne took a deep breath and closed her eyes. _Are you content knowing Harry at all?_ "You aren't close with him like he is with Penelope."

Mazzy didn't say anything for a minute.

"Well," she finally spoke up. "He's horny and he's not much of a dad. Even if he was, I'm not sure we'd get along any...."

Marianne looked at her silently, hoping Mazzy would elaborate on her own. Mazzy just stared hard at the wall. Marianne had an inkling, but she didn't know if she _could_ say what was on her mind without ruining their delicate company. Mazzy kind of expected to be scolded, but nothing of the sort ever came.

"I was worried tonight," Mazzy admitted quietly, her voice trembling a little at first. "About how I was presenting myself. I don't want to give anyone the wrong idea, so I just...."

_Fled,_ Marianne thought. Mazzy's expression soured to one of a person afraid of being attacked. But no such thing happened.

Marianne leaned forward and rested her forehead in the apex of Mazzy's neck and shoulder. She wanted to exude calm for Mazzy's sake; there was no need to panic. But, in their solace and isolation, Marianne had to confront the reality. They were both othered for their own reasons; Marianne because she could no longer be what people loved, and Mazzy because she could never be what people would love. They were what they are, and in this moment, that only drew them closer together. They were one and the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a reference to "Boyish" by Japanese Breakfast.


	4. Just the Two of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marianne and Mazzy get the villa to themselves for a day.

The morning after the festival, Paul and Marianne roused slowly and lazily like they usually did. They were surprised when they weren’t disturbed by Harry making a ruckus around the house. Perhaps he’d tired out for once. However, their suspicion turned to relief and delight when Marianne stood by the window and saw Harry down by the car with Mireille. It looked like they were going somewhere.

Marianne took her morning medication and gulped down some water before grabbing a moist towelette and returning to the bed. Paul let her settle in her arms and took the moist cloth from her.

“Yeah, you do it,” Marianne murmured.

He folded the cloth over his finger and brushed her eyelids gently. They talked about Harry’s current and previous engagements.

“He’d fuck everything, that’s what I’m saying,” Paul said.

“He doesn’t believe in limits,” Marianne whispered.

“Well, if you’re talking about Penelope, I’ll you that whatever’s going on there... it’s mutual. And it’s a great couple. Come on, look at them.”

Marianne hit his chest. “_Don’t_.”

Paul chuckled. They thought about it a moment more.

“He’d fuck you,” Marianne whispered.

“So? That makes all of us.”

Then they both laughed. Marianne tapped his chest.

“But what about Mazzy?” she proposed.

“Oh, she doesn’t count,” Paul shook his head. Marianne gave him an imploring look. “She’s a lesbian.”

Marianne hit his chest again and he just started laughing. Once he’d regained control of himself, she lied against him with a sigh.

“Is that such a bad thing though?” she asked. “He’s supposedly their _father_. He must just not know how it looks with Penelope. I think I should say something.”

“Trust me, she can handle herself just fine.”

* * *

That morning when Marianne finally got out of bed and headed to the common room, Mazzy was sitting at the table holding a Red Vine between two fingers like a cigarette and looking over a pile of instant photos she'd taken. Mazzy twisted around to greet Marianne.

“Hey, you.” Her eyes followed Marianne as she walked towards the kitchen to find herself some breakfast. Marianne waved and looked over Mazzy’s shoulder as she passed.

The photos were eclectic, vintage, and lovely. There were outdoor pictures of the terrace and pool by day and night alike, some bugs, and decorations.... Marianne did a double-take and pointed at a group of four photos together in the pile. She recognized herself in them. Mazzy looked at her sheepishly.

There were four photos of Marianne and Harry, taken during their... _altercation _in the alley yesterday. One when Marianne was against the wall, another where they were embracing.... That was a private conversation. Marianne had felt exposed enough during it, and now, knowing Mazzy had been watching them, she was furious. How much did she overhear?

Marianne pointed at the photos again and gave Mazzy a pretty irritated frown. She debated scolding Mazzy outright. She had a mind to give Mazzy the signing of her life, but.... Mazzy looked ashamed. She might’ve been looking at the table had she not been waiting for Marianne to sign at her. And after having such a good time together last night, Marianne didn’t _want _to be cross with her. Even so, maybe this explained _some _of Mazzy’s behavior yesterday.

“Not cool,” Marianne spoke out loud as a way to punish her. Forcing the words out even though each syllable rasped painfully from her throat.

“Sorry,” Mazzy apologized quickly.

Marianne went back to signing. “Never again,” mouthing the words and raising her eyebrows at Mazzy to make sure she was understood.

“Got it,” Mazzy nodded.

Marianne let it go. She nodded, let her hand fall, and continued her saunter into the kitchen for some food.

Penelope was the next person to walk down the hall.

“Morning, all,” she hummed as she entered. Mazzy and Marianne regarded her. Penelope lingered by the wall, appreciating a series of three monotone paintings hanging by the door. “Which one of these do you prefer? Marianne?”

Marianne stared at the paintings for a moment and deliberated. She pointed at one. Pen took it in her stride. She joined Mazzy at the table and looked at the pictures. She caught sight of the ones Mazzy took yesterday of Harry and Marianne.

“Those are good,” Pen nodded, and Mazzy gave a terse grin.

* * *

Later that day, Harry called. He’d wrecked the car and needed Paul to come out and help him. So, Paul took the Jeep and headed up the roads. While he was gone, Marianne and Penelope stayed out by the pool in the shade. Mazzy had made herself reasonably scarce after that morning, so it gave Marianne and Penelope some time to with each other.

Penelope seemed to not know how to act, Marianne decided. She pretended to have no self-awareness about how sexually charged every action of hers was, but that was clearly part of her facade. That’s why it was a problem. When Pen spoke to her, Marianne looked at her out of courtesy, but she quickly realized the conversation wouldn’t go pleasantly. The first thing on Pen’s mind seemed to be the legitimacy of her relationship with Harry. She wanted to know if they really were related, for _personal _reasons, she’d said.

Then Penelope asked her questions, the kind that needed spoken answers. Marianne struggled not to roll her eyes or get frustrated. She wasn’t sure if Harry was being a bad influence on her or if Penelope had developed a taste for pushing people on her own.

“You’re pretty domesticated for a rockstar,” Pen said.

Marianne smirked and looked out towards the road again. Harry and Paul still weren’t back yet.

“You were with Harry for, what, six years?” Penelope asked. Marianne looked at her. Pen's voice grew quieter. “And you’ve been with Paul for how long?”

Marianne deliberated, then put down her cup of tea and held up six fingers.

“Cool,” Pen’s lips twitched.

Why was she doing this? Why was she doing this on purpose? Did she really care, or did she just want to see others around her suffer?

“Have I done... have I done something to upset you?” Marianne said.

Pen pretended not to hear her.

“You know what? I bet they put one really good song on each side, so you just keep flipping it over,” Penelope said.

Marianne took a sip of her tea and looked away again. She thought she’d be glad when the men returned, but it honestly just made her feel a bit isolated and repulsed.

* * *

The day after that, Harry and Pen itched for some excitement away from the always-quiet villa, and Paul didn’t trust them enough with the car alone, so he went with them. Only Marianne and Mazzy remained at the house, and they reveled in it like it was their new and permanent lifestyle. More likely than not, Pen and Harry would find some excuse to see this site or visit that friend on the other side of the island, so Marianne and Mazzy expected to have the house to themselves for most, if not all, of the afternoon.

Although they spent the morning to themselves, the two women found themselves gravitating towards each other. They wandered into the kitchen or sitting room at the same time, signing and chatting as they met. Marianne was glad to discover that Mazzy was as good a listener as she was a talker. Marianne felt like the only other person who ever listened to her these days was Paul, and his knowledge of sign language was limited, and since Harry’s arrival, he’d seemed even more shut-in anyway. Mazzy had no such hangups. Quite the contrary, actually; she loved being around Marianne specifically, especially when they were alone.

Sometime in the afternoon, they migrated to the pool and were now sitting in the shade not unlike how Marianne and Pen had been the other day. Mazzy had brought her guitar out of her own accord, asked if Marianne minded if she practiced some. Marianne gave her the most nonchalant affirmation she could manage, but she was genuinely glad to see Mazzy opening up on her own terms.

Mazzy played a few songs like no one was watching. Not putting on, but not holding back either. Marianne made sure not to stare or give much indication that she liked the performance. After a few songs, Mazzy put her guitar aside and they sat in silence for a moment or two. Finally Marianne waved to get her attention.

“Do you think Penelope is angry with me?” Marianne loathed to bring it up, but any interaction she had with others had a tendency to bother her of late.

“She just likes to challenge people,” Mazzy figured. “Especially people she’s into, or people close to who she’s into. It could be about Harry, but I wouldn’t worry about it. She’ll only sabotage you if you let her get to you.”

Then Marianne inquired how to sign “sabotage.” Mazzy thought about it, then demonstrated the signs as she referred to them.

“Well... you could say ‘ruin.’ Or ‘break.’”

Marianne nodded and signed with that, “How would she ruin me?”

Mazzy shrugged and squinted at the pool. “I don’t know. I haven’t been around her enough.”

Marianne settled for that. Mazzy stood up and stretched her arms over her head, arching from side to side.

“Let’s forget about that now and go for a swim.”

Marianne grinned and inched off the lounger. She followed Mazzy into the water. Mazzy submerged herself completely before arching her back and floating beside Marianne.

“You know, I really like being around you,” Mazzy said. “You’re way funner than Pen and way calmer than Harry.”

Marianne gave a rueful half-smirk. She remembered how Pen put it the other day. _You’re domesticated for a rockstar._

“I had my time,” she rasped.

Mazzy startled upright, treading water and staring at Marianne warily. She darted away to the side of the pool, and Marianne floated onto her back not thinking anything critical of the exchange. Mazzy had a tendency to avoid Marianne’s past, but so far she was the only one who never brought it up. It was nice, really.

“Marianne, I found a frog!”

_That’s nice_, Marianne thought, but she just waved a hand dismissively. Mazzy must’ve been occupied, since she didn’t say anything else.

Marianne let her eyes slip close as she drifted in the water. She heard faint splashing, then nothing. Serenity was elusive now that Harry was visiting, but now that Marianne and Mazzy had the villa to themselves, she wanted to savor it.... Marianne didn’t know how long she’d been floating there before something interrupted her moment of peace.

Something small and cold was suddenly placed on her stomach. Immediately thinking Mazzy had put a frog on her, Marianne darted upright, thrashing in the water and looking around blearily. Sunlight shone through the water and reflected off the silver coins Mazzy had put on her stomach. Mazzy was laughing at her, foolishly and boldly lingering within grabbing distance. Marianne gritted her teeth and splashed at her aggressively. Mazzy appropriately squealed and turned away.

“Okay, okay!” Mazzy cried. When the barrage of water stopped, she turned back to Marianne. The woman glared at her.

“What were you thinking?” Marianne signed, probably meaning to ask why she did that. Mazzy grinned.

"You’re a square.”

Marianne raised her eyebrows and started throwing water at her again. Mazzy yelled and tried splashing back. To that, Marianne dove underwater, collected the coins from where they’d sunk to the bottom of the pool, and tossed them at Mazzy once she resurfaced.

“Ah!” Mazzy flinched back, finally admitting defeat. “Okay, you win, you win, Marianne, Jesus....”

Marianne gave her a final splash and decided Mazzy was adequately reprimanded for now.

After swimming for a while longer, the two decided to head inside for a hot shower and a snack before the others returned. Marianne and Mazzy shuffled through the empty house, wrapped in towels and shivering all the same. Clara had gone home half an hour ago, so they were truly alone.

“Alright, well, tell me when you’re done so I can take one,” Mazzy said, but Marianne tugged on her forearm and pointed down the hall with one hand. Mazzy was a bit taken aback, but not offended. “With you?”

Marianne nodded encouragingly like it didn’t mean a thing, and Mazzy’s face split into an awkward but delighted grin.

“Okay,” she breathed. “I’ll just... okay.”

As soon as they were in the master bedroom, Marianne closed the door and began fiddling with the shower. Behind her, Mazzy dropped her towel and peeled out of her wet bathing suit. She took it to the sink and began wringing it out, making room for Marianne when the woman moved next to her to do the same. As they were standing side by side, when Marianne glanced at Mazzy’s hands, her eye couldn’t help but be caught by the marks on Mazzy’s stomach. Marianne stiffened and paled.

How had she not noticed them earlier?

There were scars on Mazzy’s stomach. Rows of straight, white, and dark pink scars. Stacked in layers and rows. Slightly raised, some more than others. The wounds were obviously intentional, though self-inflicted or evidence of abuse, Marianne couldn’t tell. Mazzy eventually caught her staring.

“What’s up?” she asked, then she noticed what the other was staring at. "Oh."

Marianne’s hand reached forward and tentatively touched her fingertips to the scars. Her expression was severe. A little angry, scared, thoughtful, careful....

Mazzy held Marianne’s hand in place. “I’m....”

_Stop talking._

Marianne tore her eyes away from the scars as she instead half-glared into Mazzy’s eyes. She was trembling with a fear she refused to admit to herself. _She couldn't keep doing this. _After a moment, Mazzy held her free arm open in a passive offering. Marianne leaned into the hug, reciprocating it and letting Mazzy’s actions speak for themselves.

* * *

Paul drove Harry around as requested. Harry sat shotgun as usual whilst Pen sat in the backseat staring out the window. Harry was chatting off and on about things. Of course he didn’t have a filter even around his supposed daughter.

“Of course, I only said she could be my angel so I wouldn’t completely humiliate her,” Harry was saying. He looked over his shoulder at Penelope. “But there’s my angel, the one and only.”

He winked, and the two of them shared a smile. Paul rolled his eyes and looked to the side briefly.

“We should’ve invited Maz to come along,” he interjected. With her here, at least he’d have someone else in the car that was as uncomfortable as he was.

Harry gave him a sober look. “Come on, Paul, you must be joking. Bring her along so she could what? Hide in the lav again?”

But he felt bad for saying it as soon as he’d said it, which was rare but inevitable for him. Harry didn’t say anything for a moment. When he spoke up again, his tone was even more serious.

“I’ll ask her. Who knows what her answer will be, though. She’s a man-hater. God knows I’ll never blame her. We men have fucked the world, I think it’s women’s turn to change things. We’ve had our chance.”

* * *

After their shower, the tension between Marianne and Mazzy had completely alleviated itself. The two of them carried on like nothing even happened. Of course, nothing really _had_; Mazzy was recovering, her problem was more or less in the past, and that’s all there was to it. Marianne respected her and whether or not she wanted to expose the issue further, but Mazzy was well over it.

They were still alone in the house, so they decided to move out to the sun room and put a classic rock record on the turntable while they ate and dicked around for the rest of the afternoon. Mazzy recalled something she'd said about being too nervous to dress up the other day for the festival. Marianne remembered everything about it. It took a little convincing, but Marianne was able to persuade Mazzy to get a little dressed- and made-up, just for fun while they were alone.

So, there they were, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the sun room, Mazzy wearing a set of Marianne’s old clothes and rambling tenderly as Marianne did her eyes and lips in colored palettes from Mazzy's and Marianne's collective selections.

“I mean, I guess I don’t mind performing in front of women,” Maz said. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind saying ‘my pussy tastes like Pepsi-cola, I got a thing for men who’re older’ in front of a buncha girls because they won’t make it _weird_. But I feel like if I sang that in front of a room of older men, it’d be really creepy. I mean, I don’t know if they’d think it was a come-on or if I was just gross for talking about something... _sexual_, you know?”

Mazzy sounded incredulous even as _she_ thought of such a mindset. Marianne nodded in understanding and rifled through Mazzy’s pile of makeup for a couple tubes of tinted lipgloss. She held her selection up and raised her eyebrows.

“The pink one,” Mazzy gave her a look like it was obvious. “Everyone tells me that red or nude lipstick is the way to go, but I like pink. I know it’s childish, but I _like _pink—”

“Shh!” Marianne scolded, waving a frustrated hand in front of Mazzy’s face. Mazzy fell still and silent again for only a moment, so Marianne could apply the pink gloss to her lips. Marianne smiled contently when she was done.

“Thanks,” Mazzy said, rubbing her lips together. Now it was her turn. She picked a mascara out of the pile, and Marianne leaned forward complacently. “So, you like men.”

Marianne snorted, but nodded.

“So, what do you think of... Leonardo DeCaprio?”

“What?” Marianne mouthed, opening her eyes and giving Mazzy a bemused look.

“Answer the question! Is he attractive?”

Marianne looked up through her lashes at Mazzy and faked swooning. Mazzy laughed.

“Once my friends and I were playing Kiss, Marry, Kill, but I didn’t want to play because they were all men—like manly, buff, muscular men, you know? And I said as much, I said ‘I don’t wanna play if we’re just going to play with manly men.’ So my friend did an all-girls round just for me, and... I’m trying to remember who else she gave me—I just remembered this—it was like Angelina Jolie, Betty White, and, I kid you not, Marianne Lane. And I was like, ‘who the _fuck_ is Marianne Lane?’”

Marianne’s mouth fell open with delight, then she admitted it to herself. Would _any _teenager be guaranteed to know her?

“I’m too old,” she signed in defeat.

“I guess,” Mazzy shrugged. “But I picked kiss Angelina, because who cares, right? She’s cool, and then marry Betty White, and my friends were like ‘ew, she’s like ancient!’ And I said ‘But she’s probably _loaded_, guys,” and they said, ‘They’re _all_ rich, you fucking idiot.’”

Marianne smiled at the exchange, but her face quickly changed to one of mock-offense.

“Me?” She pointed to herself, giving Mazzy that same look.

“What about you?”

“You’d _kill_ me?”

“I didn’t even _know_ you, of course I picked you,” Mazzy shrugged. “You can’t hate on me; them’s the rule of the game—”

Marianne picked up a blue eyeliner pencil and leaned closer, threatening to draw on Mazzy’s face. Mazzy laughed hysterically as she recoiled until she was sprawled on the floor with one side of her face pressed against the tile. Marianne stood over her on her hand and knees for a moment. After a moment of debate, Marianne gently drew a small heart high on Mazzy’s cheek, then pulled away.

Mazzy sat up and looked at herself in the hand mirror. “Oh, that’s nice, actually.”

Marianne smiled more to herself as she appreciated Mazzy’s overall look. Mazzy didn’t look overly done; she could’ve just been going out for something. But she was so rarely like this. It made Marianne happy and oddly a bit proud that Mazzy had no presentation insecurities around _her_. It was too bad, really, because Marianne thought Mazzy looked really nice...

What would’ve happened after that, neither of them found out. Just then, Harry appeared in the doorway.

“Look at that,” Harry grinned when he saw them. “I see you girls had too much fun while we were gone.”

Marianne smiled and nodded, but Mazzy was already scrambling to organize and pack up the makeup.

“We were just finishing up,” Mazzy shrugged dismissively. Paul and Penelope followed Harry in shortly. Paul held up a couple large plastic bags.

“We picked up something for dinner,” Paul said.

“Yeah, let’s eat it out on the terrace,” Harry suggested, already shuffling out of his shoes and heading to the kitchen to grab some plates for everyone.

Marianne nodded before turning to look at Mazzy one last time. Mazzy looked like her usual low-key reserved self, but she didn’t remove the makeup or go to change clothes. Marianne took the bags of makeup from Mazzy’s still hands, and Mazzy looked up at her.

Marianne signed that she'd take the bags back to their respective rooms, and Mazzy nodded.

“I’ll get some water for the table,” Mazzy replied. They both stood and did as they said, Marianne disappearing down the hall and Mazzy heading into the kitchen.

Harry was in the kitchen already, collecting plates and cups to set the table outside. He glanced at Mazzy as she walked in and grabbed a ceramic pitcher to fill at the sink.

“You two had quite the party,” Harry said, indicating the dirty plates Mazzy placed in the sink.

Mazzy waited a moment too long to say anything.

“Yeah,” she nodded. She decided to be diplomatic for once, for Marianne’s sake if nothing else.

“I’m glad you had fun.” Harry’s voice was unusually calmer than she was used to. Like he was actually waiting for her to say something back instead of talking a mile a minute about nothing.

“Yeah,” Mazzy repeated, turning off the tap and checking the water level in the pitcher.

“I’m serious,” Harry momentarily abandoned his job to face her completely. Mazzy glanced up at him out of the corner of her eye. “For a while there, I thought you’d just be bored here all summer. Did you have fun?”

Why was he doing this? He wasn’t trying to get to her. This was out of what Mazzy had gotten used to calling “the ordinary,” but he was obviously making an effort. (Though what that effort was ultimately toward, Mazzy couldn’t really decide yet.) Still, he was _trying_ to be nice to her, and she didn’t want to punish him for that.

“Yeah,” Mazzy nodded more earnestly this time. She didn’t know what else to say about it.

“Good,” Harry smiled. “That’s good. Besides, it’s nice seeing you look like a real girl for once.”

Mazzy’s face fell. With an irritated huff, she walked past him and outside to the terrace. She sat between Paul and Pen tonight and gave Marianne an exasperated look as she passed. However, when Harry returned, he gave no indication of what happened. Marianne let it go, but not before she noticed Mazzy rubbing off her lipgloss with her napkin, just the lipgloss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a reference to "Just the Two of Us" by Bill Withers.


	5. Lemonade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morale is getting low. Dangerous situations arise.

_You would kill me?_

Why did it trouble her so? Or, did it truly not trouble her at all, and instead fill a void in her brain to frame and flesh out her more genuine unease? Never the less, Marianne and Mazzy’s conversation heavily influenced her dreams that night. 

It was a nightmare. The world was a dark blue around her. Her limbs felt heavy from sleep, and her throat ached.

Marianne opened her eyes, and they immediately burned from the salt water. How was she in the pool? Marianne arched upwards towards the light, but to her disoriented shock, she wasn’t even an arm’s length from the surface. Marianne looked down. She couldn’t see the bottom of the pool—only endless blue beneath her pale, blue feet. Marianne flailed towards the surface of the water again, pressing her lips together and trying to ignore the burning in her lungs.

She saw the sky, white and overcast. Someone was standing by the edge of the pool, but she couldn’t identify the figure. Was it Mazzy? Paul? Why couldn’t they see her? Or... did they simply not care? Marianne waved her limbs wildly, opening her mouth to shout at the figure. Still, she sank, and still, her voice was inaudible as she’d gotten so used to it being. Her vocal chords strained, but her lungs filled with water. The blue began to surround her and darken as her false consciousness ebbed away. The last thing she saw were the turquoise beads of her bracelet seeming to disappear from her wrist into the murky blue....

* * *

Marianne jolted awake, gasping for air and clutching the sheets with fretful fingers. Once she’d come to her senses, she sat up and twisted around in bed. Her eyes found the faint light coming from the window. The sun was still down, and Paul was still asleep. Marianne looked down at her deeply sleeping boyfriend, who still had one of his hands draped lifelessly across her waist. Marianne dropped his hand not-so-ceremoniously on the mattress, and he didn’t even stir. She sighed. Perhaps he’d taken a sleeping pill before bed....

Marianne checked the clock on the bedside table. It was about five in the morning. Too early to get up, but maybe she could get away with it. Marianne put on a robe and tip-toed out of the alcove and down the hall. Perhaps she’d just eat something or get a drink of fresh water then go back to bed. However, she found the kitchen light already on. It seemed she wasn’t the only one having trouble sleeping this morning.

Mazzy was standing in front of the pantry, draped in an open pink robe over her pajamas. She looked over her shoulder when Marianne padded into the room behind her.

“Hi,” Mazzy murmured as Marianne wrapped her arms around Mazzy’s waist tightly and rested her chin on Mazzy’s shoulder.

“Food?” Marianne signed, narrowing one eye at her.

“What’d you want?” Mazzy asked.

Marianne shrugged. Admittedly, she didn’t have much of an appetite if she had to cook something this early.

“Fruit?” she signed.

“Sure. Wanna look in the fridge?”

Marianne nodded and left her, opening the fridge and searching amidst the wine bottles for anything refreshing.

“Oh, hey...”

Marianne turned and looked at Mazzy. Mazzy was holding up a plastic container of flour and a few cloves of garlic.

“You want me to make some garlic biscuits?” Mazzy’s tone was intended to tempt. “They’re my specialty.”

Marianne grinned, and an hour later, they were both leaning on the kitchen island lightly dusted in flour and snacking on the cooling biscuits and sparse remains of the biscuit batter. Mazzy generously brushed the baked biscuits with melted garlic butter. Once the biscuits were soaked through with as much butter as physically possible, Mazzy licked the remains of the butter off the silicone brush. Marianne gave her a judgemental look.

“Shut up,” Mazzy snapped, even though Marianne hadn’t said anything. “This is the good stuff. You can’t waste it.”

Marianne pulled apart one of the hot biscuits and eyed Mazzy as the younger woman continued her uncouth behavior. Mazzy dabbed the remainder of the butter up with the brush and stuck the brush down her throat with an appreciative moan. Then she froze. Marianne raised her eyebrows.

“I’m not trying to make it sexual,” Mazzy looked absolutely mortified. Marianne signed ‘yes’ sarcastically. Mazzy’s face was bright red. “I’m not!”

Marianne was about to tease her more, but Harry sauntered into the kitchen, so she kept it to herself.

“You’re up early, girls,” he said, stepping around them to the fridge. Behind his back, Marianne raised a hand to sign.

Mazzy glared at her. “You shut your mouth. No, put your hand down. Sh—shut up!”

“Shut up?” Harry inquired, rotating on his heel to look at them. “Mazzy, she’s not speaking in the first place, right?”

He winked at Marianne, and she gave him a playfully stubborn look. No talking today.

* * *

Once the sun was high and the others began to rouse, Mazzy went to her room to change out of her pajamas. She took off the shirt as soon as she got in the room and began pawing through her suitcase for a new one.

Penelope was already awake and half-dressed. Her own shirt still dangled in her arms, ready to be donned. Penelope preoccupied herself with watching Mazzy for a moment. She’d noticed the older girl had gotten a lot less shy about her body all of a sudden, and the current vantage point gave Penelope a good look at something she’d never brought up before. Penelope shifted the shirt over her head and tugged it in place and leaned against Mazzy’s bed.

“What’s that?” Penelope asked in the most innocent voice she could muster. She was pointing at Mazzy’s scars, nearly touching them with her fingertips.

“Nothing,” Mazzy pushed her hand away. Judging by her tone, she was already irritated.

“They look like self-harm scars.”

“Maybe they’re none of your business,” Mazzy pulled a shirt over her head and tucked it into her skirt.

Penelope shoved off the bed and crossed her arms. Mazzy was firm, but sensitive.

“Why didn’t you come with us yesterday?” she asked, recalling Paul and Harry’s conversation in the car.

“I didn’t want to,” Mazzy shrugged, attempting a lighter tone.

“Why’s that?” Penelope asked.

“I just didn’t _want_ to,” Mazzy insisted. “I don’t want to be around....”

_Him._ She caught herself before she said it, regretful. Penelope frowned, but it just gave her another thing to pick at.

“You should be nicer to Harry,” Penelope said. “He tries to be nice to you, you know.”

“I don’t know what daddy issues _you_ got from Harry bailing on you, but I’m not into fucking someone that could be my father.”

Penelope turned her head to the side, shaking some hair out of her face. “Because you’re gay.”

Mazzy turned to her for the first time, disbelieving and shocked and _furious_....

"No," she said. "Because I'm a normal fucking person."

"Are you?" Pen raised her eyebrows. 

Mazzy didn’t know what got into her, but when she spoke again, she snapped.

“You’re a fucking bitch, you know that?” Mazzy snapped and pushed past Penelope and down the hallway. Penelope stared at the ground for a moment and never went after her. She didn’t feel satisfied.

* * *

Later in the afternoon, Marianne and Mazzy reclined in the lounger on the patio together. Marianne was sitting up and leaning back and holding a book in her lap, whilst Mazzy lied against her with her head against Marianne’s ribs. She stared idly at Marianne’s book, scanning the words at a much quicker pace than the woman actually holding the book.

“Ready,” Mazzy said under her breath when she’d finished the page. Marianne put her finger under the right page, but didn’t turn it for a considerable few seconds. Once she did, Mazzy settled against her with a sigh. “You read slow.”

Marianne chuckled, then they both fell silent for a while. In between a few more pages, Mazzy closed her eyes for longer and longer until she dozed off completely. Marianne smiled at her briefly before continuing to read in peace. The quiet was eventually interrupted by Harry walking brazenly up to them.

“Marianne, have you got the—”

Marianne waved her arm farthest from Mazzy, making a shushing motion frantically. Harry caught on and approached more quietly.

“Is she asleep?” he mouthed, then smiled. Mazzy was out like a light with one arm around Marianne’s waist and her free hand curled into a relaxed fist by her face. Slowly, so as not to make too much noise and disturb her, Harry bent down and grabbed Mazzy’s light pink camera from her the table and began fiddling with it. After a couple seconds, he gestured at Marianne and pointed the camera in their direction.

Marianne would’ve made a scolding face at him, but if his picture turned out at _all_, she wanted it to be a nice one. So she looked at him as patiently as she could manage.

The flash and whirring sound of the camera roused Mazzy at once. She startled awake and rubbed her eyes. She started out glaring at Harry, and her anger only increased as she processed more and more of the situation. Before anyone could say anything, Mazzy struggled out of the chair and stormed off.

“Mazzy!” Harry called after her, not knowing whether to go after her or give her space. “Come on, Maz, don’t run off!”

Marianne tugged on his shirt until he collapsed beside her with a defeated sigh. Marianne wrapped an arm around his shoulder and chest sympathetically.

“For fuck’s sake, Marianne, what did I do.”

Marianne swallowed and prepared to speak. Any confrontation about things between him and Penelope would have to wait. “She’s not like Penelope. She needs _support_, Harry. Understand?”

“Oh, so you’re the expert on supporting others now?”

She knew he was frustrated. Still, that didn’t make what he'd said any better.

* * *

Marianne and Harry were in the kitchen now.

“Well, what if we took the car out and—” Harry was saying, but Marianne cut him off. _No car._

“Did Paul take it out without telling us?” Harry asked. “The bastard—”

“_No_,” she rasped. “Surely there’s someone within _walking distance_ that you could go see, just for today!”

“You’re angry with me,” Harry’s shoulders sagged. She gave him a stiff-lipped look and pushed past him. “Oh, what, is this about what I said? Marianne.”

She ignored him. She gave him her input; it was up to him to chose to do shit with it.

“So are you going to be like Paul now and just ignore people when they say something that upsets you?”

She couldn't keep doing this. Marianne was gathering dishes from lunch and putting them in the sink angrily. Clara had felt the tension of the fight as soon as it began, and stayed well out of Marianne’s way and just left her to it for now. Marianne turned the faucet on full blast, and Harry just gave up. He’d go on a walk, and he’d go with the girls if it’d make her happy. Even if it didn’t, at least she’d get some time to cool down.

Harry went to Penelope and Mazzy’s bedroom. Pen was sitting on the bed, looking over a pile of developed photos, but Mazzy was nowhere in sight.

“Hey, Pen,” his tone was pleasant enough. He was quickly trying to put the fight out of his mind. “I’m about to go for a walk, you wanna come?”

Pen shook her head.

“Where’s Mazzy?”

“Don’t know,” Pen replied curtly. Harry raised his eyebrows, but left her alone after that.

He found Mazzy out front poking ants and pill-bugs with a stick. Harry approached slowly, but luckily, Mazzy didn’t bolt again. He folded his arms and leaned against the house.

“Are you tormenting those ants like I torment you?” he asked.

Mazzy raised her head and stared into the distance. Existential dread. Fatigue. The pain of life. She gave Harry a tired look.

“I’m sorry about the picture,” he said. That was hard to say, but he wanted to at least try to appease Mazzy.

Mazzy shrugged, but she seemed less begrudging.

“I was about to go on a walk. Do you want to come?”

Mazzy considered it, but soon abandoned her stick and brushed the dirt off herself.

They headed down the path away from the house in no particular direction. Harry didn’t know if there was anything within walking distance he actually wanted to see. He deflected to Mazzy.

“There’s a beach not far from here,” he said. “Or a lake, or we could head into the neighborhood.”

“Whatever you want,” Mazzy shrugged.

“Do you really mean that?” Harry looked at her.

Mazzy glanced at him, then rolled her eyes and pressed on. Harry trotted after her and brought up something that would hopefully warm up their conversation.

“Why don’t we go to the bar?” he asked.

“And do what?”

“Marianne told me about your performance anxieties,” he started. She felt her chest tense with frustration. “It’s normal to be nervous in from of a crowd, especially at first. You get up there, you have no idea what they want from you, they may hate your guts entirely, but Mazzy, it’s all _worth it_ in the end. And if you just put yourself out there, I really think you’ll get past all that.”

Mazzy didn’t want to have this conversation, but she tried to be diplomatic. “Can’t I just be nervous for a bit longer? I don’t even know if I want to be a musician...”

“That’s my point,” Harry insisted. “But until you do know, and how will you ever know if you don’t try....”

She glared at him. He was on her nerves already. His voice was quieter, more of a grumble, when he spoke up again.

“I mean, you’ll never get anywhere performing for deaf people is all I’m saying.”

“So I’m a potential client now?” Mazzy asked. “Is that what I am to you?”

Harry didn’t say anything right away. “No. Not completely. I could help you. I’m just offering my support.”

“As a producer.”

Harry stopped short and looked at her. She faced him, looking at him carefully.

“Well, what do _you_ want me to do?” he asked.

Mazzy’s fingers flexed, then she turned away with a roll of her eyes. Harry followed her down the path. They were circling back to the house now, whether or not either of them were intent on it.

“Maz, I’m serious,” he called after her. “What do you want? You’re never happy with anything I do. I try to help you, I try to give you a nice vacation away from your mother and everything at home, and you just dismiss me.” _Even Paul was better than this._ “You don’t even tolerate me, do you have any idea what that feels like? How insulting it is?”

They’d doubled back around the villa by now. Mazzy’s pace slowed as she gazed up at the house. Penelope was out front. They’d be better off circling around the house and going through the back way.

“You’re so selective,” Harry continued. _It was arrogant._ “And I’m sorry I don’t please you.”

“Oh, get over yourself,” Mazzy started.

“Well, what am I supposed to think, with how you are?”

“What the fuck do you mean how I am?”

“You know what I mean. You’re just what you are. You’re a recluse. You don’t know what you want or what you’ll do with your life or career. And the people around you can help you if you just _talked_ to someone.”

“Oh, and who would I talk to about it? You?”

“Of course you wouldn't. And I’m sorry I’m not Marianne, but you really should give up on her. She’ll break your heart.”

They were both quiet now. Quiet enough that they could hear the rustle of the grass in the wind. Mazzy’s limbs felt numb. Her thumbnail pressed against her fingers until it hurt. She forced her hand open again. _Three years clean, three years clean..._

Harry looked at her a long moment, then spoke. “Why did you even come here? You clearly didn’t want to. You never leave the house, you never go for a swim. Did you think I forced you? Is that the kind of person I am to you?”

“Oh _god_,” Mazzy snapped. “I wanted to see you! Twenty-three fucking years and I could never get that! And now I finally get here, and you won’t stop talking about music and sex and drinking. Christ, can’t you just _be_ my father for one second?”

“I can!” Harry shouted back. “Just tell me how!”

Her ears rang and her throat felt thick.

“I shouldn’t have to tell you that,” Mazzy said.

She practically jogged up the path to the house, and Harry followed at a measured but middling speed. He knew not to even entertain chasing her down, but he didn’t want the conversation to end with _that_. He followed her inside and down the hall, but she slipped into her room and locked him out.

“Maz!” he knocked, but there was no answer. The light under the door was partially obscured, like the door was blocked with something or Mazzy was sitting there.

Penelope was walking down the hall towards him. She hesitated outside the door of her and Mazzy’s _shared_ room and wondered what Harry had done to get them both locked out.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

On the other side of the door, Mazzy could hear them talking, but she was so livid that she couldn’t process any of the noise she heard.

“Forget it, Pen, let’s just get out of here.”

Then their voices moved away until Mazzy couldn’t hear them anymore. She felt bad for picking a fight and alienating him—the both of them, actually—even more. She couldn’t deny, though, that preserving herself was always her priority. Once she was sure Harry was gone, Mazzy sprawled on the floor and stared at the ceiling, withholding a total meltdown until it passed.

Harry’s words grated on her. She felt chagrined and humiliated, but when did she not? Harry was right. Or at least, there was enough evidence to make him feel like he was right. Of course someone like him had to realize someone’s same-sex attraction, regardless of their alleged relation to him. He was right. She was reclusive and moody and too scared to act on anything she wanted.

Her reaction was one of spite, but a part of her took his words to heart, no matter how jaded the result looked.

* * *

Mazzy and Marianne were the only ones in the house again. Tensions were high among the group, so it felt like each of them now tried to occupy a space several square miles away from everyone else. To each their own island. Even Mazzy and Marianne needed some alone time from each other. Although they were the only ones still in the house, the two of them were in separate rooms, courteously and completely silent, and pretending the other didn’t exist for as long as it took.

Marianne sat in the sun room and flipped through a magazine. She scrutinized each page, but she processed nothing. She resigned to the distraction when Mazzy stepped into the room from the kitchen and slumped against the door frame. Mazzy held a bottle of wine in one hand and a half-full stemmed glass in the other. Judging by the volume of the liquid in the bottle as she waved it, she’d drunk some already. Marianne set the magazine aside and sat up straighter as Mazzy staggered over to her.

“I thought you’re allergic,” Marianne signed. Mazzy straddled Marianne’s lap unabashedly.

“Maybe I am,” Mazzy sighed.

She certainly didn’t _look_ like she was having an allergic reaction, but she was most definitely tipsy. Her face was flushed, and she swayed occasionally. With how little Mazzy drunk over the trip, it wasn’t surprising to Marianne that she was a lightweight. In all fairness, with someone as persistent as Harry in her company, feigning allergy might be the only way to maintain some control, but it still didn’t sit right with Marianne that Mazzy had held up the front for so long.

“Why did you lie?” Marianne signed firmly, but Mazzy didn’t look at her.

“Want some?” Mazzy asked, hovering the glass by her flushed lips.

Marianne glanced at the bottle as Mazzy gently put the glass in her hand. After a second of consideration, Marianne sipped at the glass, keeping her free hand on the fabric cushion beside her. Now that one of her hands was free, Mazzy played with Marianne’s hair. Marianne played close attention to her. Why was Mazzy acting like this? Was she simply a handsy drunk, or is this entire situation some deliberate ploy of hers? A ploy for _what_? And what brought all this on?

Her fight with Harry. Marianne knew they had to have argued on their short walk, but didn’t know what about.

Marianne downed the rest of the glass and set it aside.

“Why are you doing this?” Marianne signed. “What are we doing?”

Mazzy acted like she didn’t even see her signing. She ran her thumb over Marianne’s lips as if to catch something. But Marianne took Mazzy’s straying hand, grasping Mazzy’s fingers and holding them over her heart. She weaved her head from side to side, trying to catch Mazzy’s gaze, but the girl was defiant and fussy.

“Maz,” Marianne said, then she had to clear her throat. Luckily, she didn’t have to speak too loudly. “What is this about?”

The tip of Mazzy’s index finger trailed down the collar of Marianne’s shirt, her eyes locked on the motion. Her forehead creased, her eyes looked like they would fill with tears. Longing. A suffering loneliness. Then, taking Marianne’s indifference for rejection, she leaned back, letting her hand dangle at her side. She was a fool to think this would work. _You’re just what you are._

However, after she pulled away, Marianne was anything but perturbed. Mazzy’s withdrawal, her control, even in her intoxicated state, ironically warmed Marianne to this entire situation. Recognition. Of course.

Marianne reached forward to bring Mazzy closer. They hesitated an inch apart, looking at each other, wondering which of them, if either, was uncomfortable. In that mere, small, flighty moment, they were careful as ever and regretted very little. Marianne didn’t know if it was the drink or the fact that one of them was in a relationship, but Mazzy kissed more slowly and gently than anyone else Marianne had known. Marianne didn’t stop her; she wrapped her arms around Mazzy’s waist and entangled a hand in her short hair. She felt Mazzy’s free hand in her own hair after a moment, twirling and twisting tenderly.

Her skin was soft and beautiful in a natural way. An unashamed way. Marianne hadn’t thought such a thing of Mazzy since seeing her scars. This night felt like an awakening to her, even if it didn’t mean much. This kiss meant nothing, of course. And if it did mean something, Marianne wanted to give it to Mazzy. Validation, attention, just a simple loving gesture so she didn’t feel so neglected and alienated at least _here _with _her_....

Mazzy’s toes flexed. When they broke apart from their brief kiss, they almost didn’t look at each other. Mazzy timidly raised her eyes to Marianne, who was smiling softly and fondly.

“Are you okay?” Marianne mouthed.

Mazzy nodded and mimicked her smile. She looked like she wanted to say something, but she didn’t get a chance to. Mazzy flinched, doubling over to the side with a feeble whimper. The wine bottle shattered on the tile floor as it slipped from her pale, trembling hand. Her arms clutched at her stomach. Marianne shifted anxiously and signed frantically. After a second, Mazzy gave Marianne a weak grimace.

“Guess I am allergic,” she huffed. Slowly, creeping like a crippled animal, Mazzy crawled off of Marianne’s lap and curled up on the sofa beside her. All the while, Marianne fussed over her, signing, shaking her shoulder as roughly as she dared, _speaking_ when she couldn’t get a response.

_What’s wrong? What’s wrong?_

“Mazzy!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is a reference to "Lemonade" by Nicole Dollanganger.


	6. Skinny Love

After taking some Tums, Mazzy was escorted to bed in hopes that she could rest until they decided what to do about the situation. Mazzy tried assuring Marianne that she’d be fine, but Marianne still fretted. Marianne wanted to go to a doctor, but she didn’t know where one was, and they didn’t even have the car right now. Then again, even if they did go out and find a medical facility, would they be able to communicate what happened clear enough that they’d be able to treat Mazzy? Even if someone at the clinic spoke English, Marianne could hardly speak, and Mazzy seemed so out of it that she might not be able to do anything at all.

Marianne hated feeling so helpless. Why did Mazzy do this?

She knew someone she could call. She made sure Mazzy was comfortable before stepping just outside of the bedroom and taking her phone out of her pocket. She dialed Paul’s number and measured her breathing until he picked up. It felt like ages.

“Hello?” Paul answered after a few rings, but his voice was nearly drowned out by loud background noise. Did he have the radio on in the car? It wasn’t very like him to go somewhere crowded.... Heaven forbid he was at a bar; that's the last thing they'd need right now.

“Paul,” Marianne rasped. “I need you to come home.”

“What’s that? Hang on, I can’t hear you....”

Marianne closed her eyes patiently. When the noise faded considerably, Paul spoke again.

“What’s going on? If Mazzy’s with you, put her on. Don’t strain your voice.”

“You need to come home,” Marianne insisted in the loudest, bravest whisper she could manage. “Mazzy's been drinking—she’s sick.”

“_What?!_”

A loud crash, like a glass shattering or a door slamming. Marianne flinched.

“What do you mean she's been drinking? You mean she drank some wine from the fridge?”

“Yes,” Marianne’s voice wasn’t audible that time, but Paul easily picked up what she meant. Marianne heard muffled swearing followed by a slamming car door.

“Is she still conscious? I mean, is it severe?”

“Not terribly,” Marianne lied. She didn’t want Paul to drive recklessly because he was worried. “But she’s in a lot of pain. Please just come home. I don't know what to do.”

“I’m on my way now, don’t worry,” Paul assured her. “I’m going to pick up Harry and Pen while I’m out, but they’re right along the way, okay?”

“Okay,” Marianne nodded.

“Alright,” Paul sounded a little calmer now. “I’m going to hang up now, okay?”

“Alright,” Marianne whispered again. She allowed herself a sigh of relief and returned to Mazzy's bedside.

The twenty or so minutes it took for Paul and the others to arrive felt like years. Marianne sat on the edge of the bed and stroked Mazzy’s hair to soothe her. Mazzy was pale and hot to the touch, coated in sweat and breathing in slow, infrequent pants. Occasional tearful sobs wracked her body. And Marianne could do nothing but watch.

Marianne wasn’t sure how long they’d stayed like that, but thankfully, the others arrived not a moment too soon. Marianne felt like a heavy weight had lifted off her the moment she heard the door open and voices fill the house.

“Marianne?!”

Marianne stood and headed to the doorway, waving frantically down the hall. Then the three adults were crowding into the small bedroom. Paul knelt by the bed first, pressing the back of his fingers against Mazzy’s forehead. He mumbled under his breath about a thermometer and left the room. Harry took his place, holding Mazzy’s hand and looking helplessly at Marianne.

Paul returned fiddling with an oral thermometer. He stuck it in Mazzy’s mouth, hit a button on it, and twisted around to look at Marianne.

“How long has she been like this?”

“One hour,” Marianne replied.

“Did she take anything?”

Marianne took the Tums bottle from the bedside table and held up one finger. Paul took it and looked it over.

“Nothing else?” he demanded. Marianne shook her head. “How much did she drink?”

“I don’t know,” Marianne signed.

“Well, where’s the bottle?”

“Broken,” Marianne admitted. “I’m sorry—”

Paul didn’t watch her full apology; he just turned back to Mazzy and took the thermometer out of her mouth.

“Damn it! It’s in Celsius.”

“Here, give it here,” Harry offered and took it from him. After a quick mental calculation, he said, “It’s about a hundred degrees.”

“‘About’ as in you’re rounding up or rounding down?” Paul demanded.

Marianne turned to Penelope, who’d been standing in the doorway watching the others anxiously.

“Some ice?” Marianne asked, making her voice as loud as she could manage. It was harder than she'd expected, possibly from stress? Penelope nodded at once.

“Got it,” she said and darted away.

Behind her, Paul and Harry’s arguing was getting more heated.

“Well, it’s a fever all the same, Paul. I don’t know what you expect from me.”

“I need to know if it’s fatal. Is her allergy fatal or not?”

“How would I fucking know?!” Harry shouted.

Mazzy stirred with a whimper, opening her eyes for only a moment to look around her. The room fell silent until Penelope returned with a dish of ice, a tea towel, and a pitcher of water. Harry wrapped some of the ice in the thin cloth and pressed it against Mazzy’s temple.

“Mm,” Mazzy’s eyes opened again, and she blearily looked about the room.

“You’re alright, Maz,” Harry said. “Just a little drunk.”

“I feel so ill,” she slurred.

“Just rest,” Penelope said, sitting by Mazzy’s head and taking over icing her forehead. “It’ll pass.”

Marianne crawled onto the foot of the bed and took Mazzy’s other hand. Paul heaved a decisive sigh.

“We’ll need to keep an eye on her tonight,” he said. “We can take it in turns, but if she gets any worse, we might need to find a hospital.”

* * *

After a while, Harry followed Paul out. Marianne took over watching Mazzy again so Penelope could get dressed for bed. Now, Marianne just sat in a chair by the bed and holding Mazzy’s hand for what felt like ages. This entire thing was a nightmare, and it had lasted too long already. Now the moments of the night seemed endless and worrisome. However, time was moving forward, and this would surely pass. Penelope, even though Marianne had kind of expected her to act like nothing happened (a cruel misconception), perched on her own bed, staring at the ground. She could’ve rested, if she wanted to, but Marianne decided to take advantage of her opportunity to talk to Paul and Harry away from the two girls.

“Will you watch her for a moment?” Marianne whispered. Penelope nodded solemnly, and Marianne stood up and walked out, closing the bedroom door behind her. As she paced down the hall, she overheard Paul and Harry talking.

“You know the area better than any of us,” Paul was saying. “Is there anywhere on the island we can take her?”

“Well, there’s a place at Piazzale Almanza, but calling it a hospital is generous,” Harry replied. “It’s a real backwater shithole. If she needs a doctor, we’ll need to get her to the mainland.”

They both fell silent and looked at the doorway as Marianne rounded the corner and leaned on the wall uncertainly. She looked between Harry and Paul with a meaningful look on her face. After a mild silent back-and-forth, Paul shook his head tiredly.

“I’ll take first watch,” he sighed, heading for the hallway. He paused to touch Marianne’s shoulder briefly before he left.

Now that they were alone, Marianne turned to Harry. Were they still mad at each other? Neither of them knew what to say, but Harry eventually spoke first.

“Thanks for the call,” Harry said. His voice and stance were a little tense. “Do you know what happened?”

Marianne hesitated. He deserved to know, but she wasn’t sure how he’d react. She didn’t want to upset him if it could be helped. They’d all had a stressful enough night as it was. Harry ran out of patience before Marianne came to a decision.

“Just tell me, Marianne,” he shifted, pinching the bridge of his nose and leaning back against the wall. “Please? Who brought out the alcohol? I seriously doubt you’d have the gall to do such a thing, with how you coddle Paul—”

“Shh.” Marianne clenched her hand into a fist and stared at his feet.

“So it _was_ her, was it?” Harry shifted his weight again, glancing sidelong across the room to the hallway. Fuck, did he do this? “Do you have any idea... why?”

Marianne’s expression softened to one of sympathy. She stepped forward, took his wrist, and pulled him onto the sofa and sat with him. Harry acted like he wanted to protest. He was fighting her, just slightly.

“Oh, for f... Marianne....”

Marianne held his hands tightly, stroking his fingers and wrists until he was quiet again. He was practically beside himself as it was.

“What is it? Just tell me.” Harry’s voice was almost pleading now.

“Mazzy used to hurt herself,” Marianne finally whispered. “There’s scars...” she traced her finger across her stomach over her shirt. “On her stomach. It was _years_ ago, Harry, and she asked me not to mention it...”

“Then why are you?” Harry held her at arms length. Marianne blinked. She wasn’t sure what to say. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you deserve to know.”

“So?” Harry stood up. “Why are you fucking telling me now? You think this was a part of that? They’re just scars, aren’t they? She’s fine.”

“Harry—”

“Marianne. No. She’s fucking fine until she says otherwise.”

Marianne fell silent again. No point in wasting her voice if he wasn’t going to hear her out. Besides, she didn’t know for sure if this was a... _relapse _into old habits on Mazzy’s part. Whatever the case, Harry knew now, so it was up to him what to do with the information. And tomorrow morning, Marianne could have a long conversation with Mazzy and they can decide together whether or not this was the start of something horrible....

Harry surprised her by sitting back down with a heavy sigh. His head hung.

“Was it me?” He gave a single, mirthless chuckle. “I mean, I know this whole time, you’ve been saying it’s not about me, but....”

Marianne wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and he held her hand against him.

“We had a fight, and I come home to this. What am I supposed to think?”

Marianne tilted her head against his shoulder. She knew _she_ possibly had an effect on things, given what all happened between her and Mazzy before the poor girl feinted. None of them were truly to blame.

Marianne rocked them back and forth slowly. “I think there are several factors involved. Don’t blame yourself until she says otherwise.”

Another deadpan chuckle. But he relented. “Okay.”

* * *

Paul sat in a chair by the bed, watching Mazzy sleep heavily under the light of a lamp on the bedside table. Her panting and twitching had reduced. Now she only occasionally tossed her head or shifted a limb. From a distance, she looked better, but she still had a high fever. Paul glanced over his shoulder. Penelope still hadn’t settled down to go to sleep. She was in her pajamas—or rather, the camisole and shorts that acted as her sleepwear—and she was still sitting cross-legged on the center of her bed. Watching just as Paul was.

The adults had agreed to keep the watching among the three of them; Penelope didn’t need to trouble herself worrying over her half-sister. Granted, she probably could handle the responsibility for a few hours, but it wasn’t necessary. And if something _did_ happen, Paul didn’t want to have to rely on her.

“You worried?” Paul almost sounded amused. He’d seen so little of her vulnerable or concerned for others. It made him feel better about the situation, in an odd way that he’d feel guilty about later.

Penelope reeled back with a blink. “You know she did this on purpose, right?”

“You don’t know that,” Paul dismissed, not quite irritated yet. Penelope had no proof Mazzy was attention seeking or anything else.

“You know her history, don’t you?” Pen asked quietly.

Paul stiffened and gave her a half-warning, half-wary look. Then Mazzy had closet skeletons of her own. Paul turned away. He didn’t want to know or talk about it. He knew all he needed to.

“It’s late,” he dismissed. “You should get to sleep.”

Penelope crawled under the covers, glancing at Mazzy one last time before turning away. Paul returned his attention to Mazzy. After a moment, his gaze drifted up to the wall above her bed. Although she’d been there for a short time and possibly wouldn’t be there very long, she’d made her side of the room quite personalized. Countless of her instant photos hung from pins and tape on the wall, some from her visit but several from other travels. Paul skimmed the photos to pass the time and distract himself. He felt so emotionally drained after this whole affair that he didn’t give it a second thought when he found the pictures Mazzy had take of Marianne and Harry during the festival.

* * *

At about 2:30 in the morning, Paul’s eyes were heavy and dry. Were it not for Harry quietly stepping into the room and shaking him by the shoulder, Paul could’ve very well nodded off any second. Paul grasped Harry’s hand like a lifeline for a moment, then released him.

“I’ll take over,” Harry whispered so as not to disturb the girls. “How’s she doing?”

“She’s...” Paul gestured to Mazzy. She was completely quiet now, but almost alarmingly so. “She took some Benadryl a little over an hour ago. Since the alcohol would’ve been metabolized by then, I didn’t think it would be a problem....”

“Well, it’s not like we didn’t do crazier back in our day,” Harry offered.

Paul was too tired to say anything. He let Harry take his place and went down the hall to the alcove. He took off his shirt before sliding under the covers slowly. His attempts to not disturb Marianne were all in vain, since she sharply inhaled and rolled over to face him as soon as he’d settled down next to her.

“Mm, sorry,” Paul sighed, wrapping his arms around her. Marianne settled against his chest contently.

“You did really well tonight,” she murmured. “I’m impressed by how you acted with Mazzy...”

“What, that I actually did something?” Paul yawned.

“You know what I mean,” Marianne said.

“Well... she needed someone to do that for her. We both know what that’s like....”

He dozed off almost immediately. Marianne looked at him and kissed his cheek quickly before dozing off herself.

* * *

Harry’s leg bounced rapidly as he glanced between Mazzy and the clock on the bedside table. The minutes ticked by agonizingly slowly, and Mazzy was still and quiet as a stone. The Benadryl really knocked her out. Harry grabbed the cloth from the dish of melted ice and wrung it out before stroking Mazzy’s face with it gently. He just needed something to do; he hadn’t meant to wake her.

Mazzy opened her eyes and looked around disoriented for a moment. When she saw Harry, she sank back into the pillow again. The events of that night came back to her—the drinking, the kiss, the vomiting...

“How are you feeling?” Harry murmured.

“Alright,” Mazzy sighed. “What time is it?”

“About three-thirty,” Harry replied.

Mazzy frowned. “Do we have to go to the hospital?”

“Well, let’s see.” Harry grabbed the thermometer from the bedside table and checked her temperature again. Mazzy held the thermometer in her mouth, wiggling her lips from side to side. It seemed that when the Benadryl didn’t knock her out, it made her a little loopy. Once the thermometer beeped, Harry took it and checked it. Ninety-eight degrees.

“Your fever’s down by two degrees already. By morning, I’m sure it’ll break and you’ll be your old self again.”

“Oh...”

Mazzy’s gaze wandered. She ended up staring up at her wall of photos, tracing the borders of a few with weak, aimless fingers. Harry’s mouth felt dry as he watched her. Everything Marianne had told him earlier haunted him regardless of how dismissive he tried to be. He wanted to give Mazzy the benefit of the doubt, but he also knew he couldn’t pretend it was outside the realm of possibility for Mazzy to knowingly intentionally do something self-destructive.

“Mazzy...” he started.

“Hm?” Mazzy turned her head to look at him, smiling faintly.

Harry was about to ask her what she was thinking. What had gotten into her. Why she _did that_. But seeing her careless with her guard down and looking at him with something other than reserve and disdain made him lose his nerve. When she noticed him hesitating, Mazzy boldly reached forward and took one of his hands. He gripped hers with both of his hands very carefully. Three months ago, he didn’t even know she existed. He’d ask her tomorrow. He didn’t want to upset her tonight; he just wanted to enjoy this moment while he could.

“Why’re you up?” Mazzy slurred, blinking slowly.

“You were really sick,” Harry replied. “I don’t know if you remember that. We decided to watch you in turns tonight, just to be safe. I took over for Paul about an hour ago.”

“Oh,” Mazzy smirked. She shook his hand a little. “You know you’re being a good dad right now.”

“I know,” Harry raised his eyebrows, but he couldn’t deny how pleased he was to hear that from her. Mazzy blinked and gave him the soberest look she could manage.

“Can I have my CDs back?”

* * *

The sky outside the window finally began to lighten with the threat of blooming dawn. At that point, Harry had turned off the lamp to conserve power and hopefully reduce disturbance for the two sleeping girls. Harry glanced at the clock. Almost five now. Then Marianne tiptoed into the room behind him, leaning against the doorway for a moment to watch two of her favorite people in the world. Mazzy seemed sound asleep, and Harry slumped over the bed, hardly able to stay awake. They still held hands, loosely in their varying states of consciousness. It pleased Marianne to no end, in spite of the circumstances.

_Every mushroom cloud has a silver lining..._

She stepped forward and grasped Harry’s shoulder. He startled, but relaxed when he saw her.

“Come to take over for me?” Harry asked. Marianne nodded. Harry got to his feet, but slumped against her. She kept an arm around his waist to hold him up. “Fuck, I’m tired. How’d you sleep?”

“Not at all,” Marianne admitted, looking past him at Mazzy. Harry straightened and gestured to the sleeping girl.

“She’s doing well,” he said diplomatically. “She woke up sometime in the night, her fever’s broke.... She’s going to be okay this time.”

Marianne turned to him, bewildered. _This time?_ Harry didn’t look away from Mazzy, and his expression was grim and fatigued. If he planned to talk to her, now wasn’t the time. Maybe Marianne should talk to her....

Marianne pecked his cheek. “Go get some sleep. I think I’ll sit with her a while.”

After a moment of deliberation, exhaustion won, and Harry lumbered out of the room down the hall. Marianne took his place in the chair by the bed and watched Mazzy sleep. Some color had returned to her face, and her breathing was steady. Marianne sighed with relief.

Some time later, Mazzy woke again. The room was much brighter from natural light alone. Mazzy could make out where Marianne slept with her head pillowed on her folded arms on the edge of the bed. Mazzy sat up slowly and reached for a glass of water on the bedside table. She didn’t mean to wake Marianne, but she did. Marianne looked blearily up at Mazzy for a moment.

“Sorry,” Mazzy said, about several things. Marianne could only smile with relief. Mazzy smiled back and shifted closer to the wall, patting the mattress next to her.

It was a tight fit, but the two women pressed together under the covers without a care. Marianne twirled a lock of Mazzy’s hair as she stared at the girl dearly. Mazzy smiled shyly back in the way Marianne had come to get used to.

“How are you?” Marianne signed. She’d missed being understood so easily with so little.

“All better,” Mazzy replied. “Were... the others really mad at me?”

“No!” Marianne looked appalled at the very idea. “They were worried. _Worried._”

Marianne signed that insistently and pointed at Mazzy. Mazzy averted her gaze.

“Oh...”

It was as good a time as any for the guilt to set in, but Marianne didn’t want to waste time with that. She’d seen it countless times with Paul and others. Mazzy was too young for that, for god’s sake. Marianne held Mazzy’s chin and gave her a sympathetic but stern expression. She didn’t know what to say, but thankfully, her look alone sufficed. Mazzy’s eyes filled with tears. Marianne held her close and kissed the top of her head as Mazzy started trembling with sobs.

“I’m sorry,” Mazzy whimpered.

“Shh, shh,” Marianne soothed her.

“I just—I don’t know why I’m like this! I knew I’d get sick, I just didn’t _care_. I needed... I wanted to....”

Marianne pulled away, holding Mazzy as far away as the bed allowed.

“Why?” she signed. She needed to know. She had to be sure....

Mazzy sniffled and wiped her eyes. “I couldn’t pursue you without being a little drunk and fatalistic.”

Was that all it was? Mazzy risked harm to herself—after having a big fight with Penelope and Harry, no less—just so she’d work up the courage to kiss Marianne? That’s bullshit. And Marianne said as much. Marianne signed again, more insistently this time. That wasn’t all it could be, she wanted the whole story.

“Tell me why,” she demanded. And Mazzy started crying all over again.

“H-Harry told me I’m just what I am,” she struggled to control her voice so she didn’t wake anyone else. “And he’s right. I’m fake, and I’m an outsider, and... I....”

Mazzy sniffled. _She’ll break your heart._

“I just wanted to be your dream girl for a night.”

Marianne’s lips trembled as she pulled Mazzy closer again. She hugged her tightly and hushed her again. There was nothing she could say in so few words, nothing she could sign to make Mazzy and herself feel better. Luckily, she didn’t need to. Mazzy knew her fault as soon as she’d said it, but it felt good to get it off her chest regardless.

Had they been truly alone, they’d have no regrets being so vulnerable. But, to neither of their knowledge, Penelope was lying wide awake and staring at the wall by her bed. It was easy to fake being asleep, especially since the others weren’t really paying attention to her. But she’d caught enough of the conversation from Mazzy’s end alone to draw her own conclusions about what happened last night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a reference to "Skinny Love" by Bon Iver. The phrase "skinny love" has two meanings: it refers to either a relationship dynamic where two people are very much in love with each other but are too shy to express their feelings, or a long-standing relationship that lacks any affection or love at all.


	7. Where Are You?

At about nine o'clock the next morning, Mazzy and Marianne finally stirred. The sun had risen high, and the bed on the other side of the room was empty and unmade. Marianne and Mazzy decided to get up and get ready for the day. After some insistent reassurance from Mazzy, Marianne left her to her own devices and moved into her own room at the end of the hall. Paul was still sleeping heavily. It seemed he hadn't slept very well until dawn either. When Marianne touched his shoulder, he startled awake like someone had shouted.

"What's going on?" he groaned, covering his eyes. "Is Mazzy—"

"Shh," Marianne moved her hand through his hair and let it rest on his back. "Mazzy's fine. We're going to have breakfast in a bit."

"Oh, okay..." Paul fell back into bed, and Marianne let him sleep. She took her medicine and got dressed. After completing her morning routine, she headed back down the hallway, meeting Mazzy halfway to the kitchen.

Mazzy held up a bundle of clothes. "I'm gonna take a shower. I'm still gross from last night."

Marianne smiled and waved in acknowledgement, and they parted ways again. Marianne continued into the kitchen. Harry and Penelope were already there. Penelope was sitting on the counter with her legs hanging apart, and Harry stood flush against the counter in between her knees. His hands rested on the counter on either side of her, and she stroked his arms and face soothingly.

"You worry too much," Penelope smirked and kissed him on the lips. "She's fine."

"I'm sure she is," Harry grinned. They shared another kiss before he glanced at Marianne.

Marianne tried not to gag and went straight to the refrigerator. Were they really acting appropriate, especially after what happened last night?

* * *

Everyone was relieved to see Mazzy eating breakfast with the rest of them an hour later. However, Paul and Marianne couldn't help but be slightly irritated. Seeing Mazzy sitting there acting like nothing had happened. She was too much like her father in how quick she was to brush serious incidents under the rug. _It's in the past now, so what's there left to talk about?_ The five of them ate in an unusual awkward silence until it was broken by Mazzy herself.

"You know my... mother never believed me about being allergic?" she started. "She thought I was faking 'because I looked down on her and her friends when they were drunk' or whatever.... I guess I just wanted to make sure for myself while I still had a chance away from her."

She smiled tentatively. Marianne took her hand sympathetically, but the smile she gave Mazzy was more like a grimace. Penelope glared at them in a reserved way while they weren't looking at her. Paul didn't say anything. Harry was the only one who returned Mazzy's smile with a grin of his own.

"That sounds like Caroline," he said. "Reminds me of the time we..."

Then he started a story like he so easily could, and the tension around _Mazzy _seemed to ease. For the morning, at least. Otherwise, however, he wasn't doing himself any favors.

* * *

"Can I borrow the wheels?" Harry asked, coming up from the pool for some air. "I want to see people."

He folded his arms on the edge of the pool by where Marianne and Penelope were sitting cross-legged in the shade.

"Pen, you wanna come?"

Penelope shook her head. She couldn't look more painfully bored if she'd tried. If she was moody, he put it up to her being tired from last night. Even then, she was still a teenager, and he wouldn't bug her if he could help her.

"What?" Harry looked back at Marianne.

Marianne held up a piece of paper she'd been scribbling on and mouthed, "groceries."

"Groceries? Alright," Harry kicked off the side of the pool. "We'll go together."

He lifted himself out of the pool on the other side and wrapped himself in a towel before heading to the house. He found Mazzy in the sun room, sitting on the sofa with her guitar in her lap, staring idly at nothing. She came out of it as soon as she heard him. Harry stood in the doorway and put his arm up against the door frame.

"Hey, Maz. Marianne and I are heading into town for some errands. You want to come along?"

Mazzy shook her head. "No, I think I'll stay here today...."

Harry didn't protest like she expected him to. He didn't give her the characteristic 'you always stay here, come out for a bit, don't be a fun-suck.'

"Alright," Harry sighed, but he hesitated until she took notice.

"What?" she asked, a little miffed that he didn't try to persuade her.

"I just want to make sure you're not going because you have something better to do and not because you're feeling neglected and isolating yourself."

The smile she gave him was genuine this time. "No, I'm not. I'm just..." she sighed. "I'm still kind of worn out from last night. I think I need a recovery day."

"Say no more, then," he smiled back. "Put something on the turntable while we're out. Take some photos, watch some TV. I'm sure Marianne wouldn't mind if you snooped through her make-up while we're out."

Mazzy chuckled, but his message was clear. Do whatever you want to entertain yourself, just don't do anything stupid.

"Okay," she nodded.

"Okay," Harry smirked and turned out to the patio again. "Be good, Maz."

"You too," Mazzy called after him.

"Would that I could, dear!"

* * *

Penelope tried to not let what she heard Mazzy tell Marianne that morning bother her. It didn't _bother_ her; it was clear from her dismissive behavior. But to say she didn't think it over a few times was also a generous statement. _I couldn't pursue you unless I was a little drunk... I wanted to be your dream girl for the night._ What was that supposed to mean if it wasn't what Penelope thought it was?

Marianne and Mazzy couldn't have gone far. Mazzy's reaction couldn't have been fake, and it was unlikely they made out with Mazzy hardly able to keep her head up. Although, with how easily she brushed it off the morning after, perhaps her "allergic reaction" could've been a stellar performance that even Penelope couldn't rival. Of course, Penelope wasn't going to say that out loud. She hardly believed such a thing herself.

Still, she heard what she heard, and she saw how Mazzy and Marianne had been acting around each other since they got here. Penelope believed what she believed, and that made her even less ashamed to pursue what she wanted this trip.

After Marianne and Harry left for the village, Paul and Penelope went out by the pool, and Mazzy stayed indoors. Penelope teased Paul while they were by the pool. Paul was working on his computer, but she knew how she distracted him. It was her goal, of course. She knew what she was doing, and the way he barely defended himself made her more optimistic as the afternoon drug on. She had Paul all to herself for the afternoon, just as Mazzy had Marianne, and Penelope was afraid of losing her chance.

Clara stepped up to the patio with a bag of trash in her hand. She called to Paul to tell him she was finished for the day and would be heading home.

"Okay, Clara," Paul nodded. Then he was stuck with Penelope again. "Shouldn't you be going round the island?" He looked at her. "Check it out—it's pretty beautiful out here."

Penelope curled her fingers on the edge of the pool and shook her head with a doe-eyed expression. "I wouldn't know where to go."

"There's a lake," Paul said, returning to his laptop. "Pretty close by. Lot of kids come out, bring guitars, play music. It's fun. You should check it out."

Penelope tilted her head and gazed at him.

"Show me." she demanded.

Clara called up from the path. Go while the sirocco wind's not there. Then she was gone for good this time.

Paul ran a hand over the back of his neck.

"Where's your sister?" he asked. Maybe if someone else was out here, Penelope would back off. "Why don't you hang out with her?"

Penelope blew a raspberry and kicked her leg. Mazzy was the last person she wanted to see. Paul gave a hesitant polite smirk.

"Well, maybe it is best you let her rest."

Penelope didn't look away from him. She was still giving him that look, that complacent, pleading _look._

Paul gestured in a direction exasperatedly. "The beach is two miles from here. It's not so far."

Pen pressed her foot on the wall of the pool and tried to float.

"Walking?" she prompted.

"Yeah, its a proper hike. You should be up for it."

Penelope smiled while he was watching her and tried to float again, panting as she was just above the water. Then she straightened again and looked back at Paul with one of her innocent expressions. He was still watching her—staring! She grinned.

"You wanna see me do a hand stand?"

Paul tossed his glasses on the laptop in defeat. "Yeah, go ahead."

* * *

Marianne and Harry found a small store in the market and collected the things they needed to restock at the house. Marianne knew she shouldn't be talking, but this was her only chance to communicate with Harry away from everyone else. And after the last few days, it was the ideal time. On the topic of Mazzy, and how quickly he was to act like he forgot all about the incident last night, his patience ran out pretty quickly.

"She drank, Marianne. She probably hasn't drunk that much in her life. And she told me she's fine. And she's an adult, it's not like I can tell her not to drink because daddy says so."

"You could at least say something," Marianne rasped. "Anything to make sure she knows that."

"I'll talk to her, Marianne," Harry sounded more tired than angry. "Now, if there's nothing else to discuss...?"

Marianne gave him a look. Of course.

"And what do you want to tell me about my other one, then?" Harry sighed, reaching to the top shelf to get something else.

Marianne started carefully. She'd planned what she was going to say, but now that it came time to say it, she wasn't quite happy with her wording or anything.

"It can look a bit full on. A bit, in a situation like this morning... it could be misconstrued."

Harry looked at her. "What do you mean.... What do you mean, Marianne?"

"How you treat Penelope," Marianne clarified.

Harry withheld a swear, then went ahead with it anyway. "What, shit, I'm too brash, I'm too impulsive, I'm too a lot of things. But, Christ, I'm _sound_."

They were both quiet until they headed to the front of the store to check out. Then Harry decided he wasn't done with the matter. He continued to speak as he loaded items onto the belt to the cashier.

"I mean, look, if you ask me, do I find my daughter sexy? Have I caught myself enjoying the sight of her? Yeah, I have. I didn't know her until a year ago, so, yeah. It's a little odd."

They left the store each with handfuls of bags. Before they even had a chance to cross the street, Harry turned to face Marianne sternly.

"I acknowledge and I deal with the shit that goes on in my head."

Marianne followed him down a narrow alleyway. They both dodged people coming and going as they went. And Harry continued to talk.

"Y'know, coming from Paul, this would be outrageous. Paul is Paul. But coming from you... I mean, what is the impulse here?" He stopped and turned to her. "To humiliate me, or.... What is it, really?"

"_Harry_," Marianne's voice strained as she tried to shout. "This is not about _us_."

"Isn't it?" Harry demanded. "We've been testing each other ever since I got of the plane. Well, I've never stopped, but... I mean,_ come on_. Its me. Stop—stop this _lying_ to yourself."

"_Listen!_" Marianne grabbed a fistful of his shirt, enunciating each word as best as she could. "I am not gonna leave Paul for you!"

"Oh, what you don't..." Harry started defensively, but Marianne had already started walking down the path again. Harry trailed after her, calling after her. "What, you thought I was here for the capers? They used to process slaves on this island. Did you know that?"

He chuckled.

"I hate this fucking island."

They emerged onto a sidewalk perpendicular to the alleyway, and a road beyond it. Marianne stopped before they could cross the street and looked at him.

"Look, let's not get things confused—"

"I'm not fucking my daughter!" Harry shouted.

A couple of pedestrians stared at them and hurried past. Marianne made a frustrated noise and flailed her arms.

"Oh, so fucking predictable," she started across the street and gestured to the people around them. "Big enough audience?!"

Harry just chuckled. "Are you kidding? We've just made their vacation. Haven't we?"

* * *

Paul and Penelope did go on that walk together. They walked for a little over a mile, Penelope leading the way and Paul looking after her. They stopped at an outcropping of rock for a rest, and Paul spoke for the first time.

He did leave a note, he said. What did it say, Penelope had asked. Just Marianne's name. He just wanted to write her name one last time. They destroyed it as soon as Paul got back from the hospital.

* * *

Marianne and Harry left the groceries in the car and drove to a residential area. Harry eagerly brought Marianne up the path and into the house. He shouted his hellos to the denizens of the house and introduced Marianne to all of them. Marianne soaked in the atmosphere, trying to put the events of earlier that day out of her mind. The house was pleasantly cool—not like an air conditioned home, but a welcome change from the blazing outdoors.

The TV was on, showing some story about refugees on the island, but no one paid it any mind as it filled the silence. The woman of the house prepared ricotta and offered some to the guests. Take it while it's warm. The ricotta was delectable, and the kitchen was cozy yet foreign. And for a moment, as Marianne shared the ricotta with Harry, she forgot that she was ever mad at Harry—or anything but in love with him, for that matter.

Marianne wandered outside, her white skirt billowing in the wind. She sat down on the stone steps of the veranda, and a sinking dread like guilt took over her. She remembered their fight like there was nothing else, and she regretted it all.

Harry joined her. She wrapped an arm around his shoulder and leaned close so that she doesn't have to speak loudly. She tries creaking out an apology, but he held a hand up and stops her gently yet firmly. For once, he's the stable one of the two. Perhaps that's how it was more often than she was willing to admit since her "reinvention."

Harry spoke to her. "You don't need to apologize. You never have."

She smiled at him, but she's resigned until she decides to forgive herself.

They departed for the villa shortly after.

* * *

When they got home, the villa was empty. The two of them searched every room and corner of the property, but to no avail. Paul, Mazzy, and Penelope were no where to be seen. Perhaps they'd gone out? It took a moment before Marianne and Harry were willing to admit they really were home alone.

"Well, they must be here somewhere," Harry started as they stood in the kitchen and put something on the radio. "They must have gone off for a hike or something."

Marianne nodded. She was glad they'd all felt up for it, but she tried to shake her unease.

"Can you do the ricotta?" Harry asked.

He helped her take the leftover ricotta out of the plastic bag and onto the counter. Harry set the food on the plate, then abandoned it. He kissed Marianne more deeply and passionately than she'd expected. She didn't protest at first, but she whimpered as he backed her out of the kitchen and into the hallway. He holds her up against the wall, lifts her dress up. She feels his teeth on her shoulder and she lets that ground her. She was rejecting this—she was rejecting him and how this made her feel. She couldn't do this, they couldn't....

Harry gave her a disbelieving, pitiful, betrayed look.

"He put a bell on your neck," he breathed.

"I'm glad he did," Marianne whispered, tears in her eyes.

_"I can love you now_,_"_ Harry insisted.

"Don't be angry," Marianne pleaded. She tried to hold his face, but she couldn't even touch him. "I love you."

He straightened. When he looked at her again, his face and his voice betrayed nothing. Monotone and empty.

"Then we shouldn't see each other anymore."

Marianne felt the rejection like a physical pain in her chest. Harry pulled away from her and straightened himself out before going to sit in a chair by the sun room. He folded his elbow on the arm of the chair and stared at her, and Marianne was left trembling.

* * *

Penelope and Paul returned later right as Marianne was finished preparing the ricotta, and Mazzy was right behind them. They all moved out to the terrace for dinner. Marianne and Harry were unusually quiet and sullen that night. When taking their places at the table, Mazzy gravitated to Marianne. If anything unpleasant had happened that afternoon, surely Marianne would want her support in it. However, when Mazzy leaned down by Marianne and wrapped an arm around her, Marianne pushed her arm away without even looking at her. Mazzy recoiled and tried to not let the hurt show on her face. She shuffled to an empty chair and sat down, unsure of what to do with herself.

Dinner started out unusually quiet again, with a layer of almost-hostile tension over it. Marianne and Harry shared headed glares every once in a while, but Harry eventually broke the silence and tried to be more amicable for the sake of Paul, Mazzy, and Penelope.

"How was the recovery day, Maz?" he asked.

"Good," Mazzy replied. "I went out and took some pictures. I'll show you tomorrow, maybe."

"Good, good.... So, you two must be starving," he turned to Paul and Penelope. "You went swimming as well, no?"

"We did," Penelope smiled.

"Where? At the lake?"

"Um, no, actually... Paul took us to the cliffs," Penelope replied.

"Hmm," Harry muttered.

Marianne tried to share a glance with Paul, but he wouldn't make eye contact with her. Penelope kept talking.

"We dived and dived and dived," her voice was airy.

"How was the wind?" Harry asked.

"Well," Paul smirked. "I'll need a spoon to scrape the sand outta my eyes, that's for sure."

He grins. A rare thing, but Harry can only look painfully disinterested amidst his blatant annoyance. Paul and Penelope chuckled _together_. Marianne shifts in her chair and glances at them, still eating.

"Well, you got your beach, then," Harry said. "More or less."

"Yeah," Penelope nodded, laughing. She gives him an endeared look. "It was better than a beach."

Marianne's eyes dart up in a fiery glare. _She did not._

Paul added, completely oblivious to Harry and Marianne's sudden tension. "Actually, there are a couple of beaches here. Like micro-beaches or something. I don't know what they call them, but really tiny. Just for three or four people—it's beautiful. And you can do anything you like out there, really."

He was more talkative than usual, and Harry is starting to catch on as to why. His eating slows. Harry and Marianne share a look. Marianne leans forward a bit while looking at the table. Paul is still talking.

"If the wind dies down, that's what we do next. You'd love it." He looks at Marianne now. Then a cursory glance at Mazzy even though it makes her skin start to crawl.

Marianne just stares at Penelope in a continuous stream of disbelief and despair.

"By the way," Paul continued. "Did Marianne make this?"

"Yeah," Harry replied. His hands felt numb.

"This is so good," Paul grinned and nodded. "I can tell. Cilantro, that her signature. She'll put it in anything."

Harry chuckled blandly. "Will she?"

Something crawling on the wooden canopy made Penelope stare.

"Yeah," Paul confirmed. "By the way, they always say in Pantelleria that people eat a lot of capers. But so far we haven't eaten any, right?"

Marianne gave him the most incredulous look Paul had ever seen, but he remained completely oblivious. Harry gave Paul a smug look.

"Oh, I have."

Then a gecko dropped onto the table from the canopy. Marianne jumped and drew back, and Harry uttered a couple of curse words. Mazzy leapt on her chance. She cupped the lizard in her hands and held it gently.

"I'll take care of this..." she offered.

"Good," Harry said. "Throw it out while you're at it, please?"

Mazzy took her chance to flee. She stamped down the pathway until she couldn't hear the others speaking anymore.

After that, Penelope stretched and sighed.

"I think I'm gonna go watch a movie or something." She stood and passed behind Harry as she went. "You good?"

"Yeah, you?" Harry held her arm in place when she wrapped it around his shoulders.

Penelope replied, "Yeah, I'm just beat from the day."

She leaned her chin on his shoulder and glared at Marianne.

"Pretty beat," she continued.

"Okay," Harry allowed.

She kissed him on the cheek and padded into the house.

"Good night, Pen," Harry called after her.

"Night," Penelope called back.

As soon as she was gone, Harry spoke in an almost accusatory tone to Paul.

"Hope she didn't catch cold."

"She's just tired," Paul assured him. "It was a long day."

Marianne made a noise. Then after a pause, she tried speaking again.

"Swimming..." she gestured. "Swimming can take it out of you."

Harry just looked down at the food, feeling a little frustrated and sickly all at once. He and Marianne shared another look. She was careful; she didn't want to send him over the edge, but it seemed there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Paul was the catalyst, of course.

"How was your day?" he asked, still completely oblivious to Harry's impending rage. "Any good?"

Harry didn't answer. He just pushed away from the table and walked into the house.

* * *

Penelope was changing in her room when she heard a knock at the door.

"Pen?" she hears. "It's Harry."

Penelope covered herself with her denim jacket and half-turned to the doorway.

"Come in," she said.

Harry did so and hesitated as soon as she saw what state she was in.

"Sorry, um, I was just..."

Penelope spoke over him confidently. "You asked me to tell you when i was ready to go back, and I'm ready."

So something did happen. That didn't guarantee what he _suspected_, but something definitely happened that afternoon.

"Okay," Harry sounded a bit off, like he didn't know where she was going with this.

"I've had my vacation," Penelope said.

Harry waited a moment, then spoke up a little uncertainly. "Did what you wanted to do? You...."

"It was fantastic," she chimed. "I'll remember it always."

Harry nodded. "Yeah, we'll maybe go tomorrow. Good night."

He stepped back and pulled the door shut with him. He could hear her faint bidding before heading down the hall and out of the house again.

* * *

When Paul returned to the bedroom, Marianne was half-dressed on the bed. She looked over her shoulder at him knowingly and dreadfully. Her despair only worsened when he didn't do anything to defend himself. He just gave her her pills as if that would make any of this better and sat dejectedly in the corner. Outside, the car started and they could hear it pull out of the driveway. Paul got to his feet, letting his anger come over everything else right now.

"I'm done with him, aren't you?"

He sauntered out of the room and slammed the door gently behind him. Marianne only ran her hands over her arms. She supposed she _was_ done with him, if the events of the afternoon were anything to go by. She recoiled on the bed and stared at the framed picture on her bedside table.

* * *

Paul waited by the pool for Harry. Harry wasn't out driving for long. After leaving the car in the driveway again, he made his way up the back path to the pool, cursing and mumbling to himself about snakes. He almost looked intoxicated, but his reaction was entirely the organic result of mania from anger.

Once at the pool, he stripped and left his wallet and the car keys on the table and dove in. Paul watched him swim laps back and forth. Paul looked about anxiously; he doesn't want anyone to see their fight lest they interfere. This was his only chance to settle this. There was no telling what Harry would've done after getting out of the pool had he not noticed Paul as he was getting out.

"Oh, fuck!" he swore. He climbed out of the pool and looked at Paul. "You waiting for me? It's a nice surprise."

"Shh," Paul shushed, looking back up at the house again.

Harry grabbed a towel and continued to near-shout as he nearly always did. "If you have something to say to me, say it."

"Keep your voice down," Paul grunted.

"What, you think I'm plastered?" Harry demanded.

"Tonight's not the night for it."

"No, tonight is definitely the night for it," Harry argued. He picked up a bottle at Paul's feet. Half gone already. "Paul, fuck. Seems you agree, huh?"

Paul averted his gaze.

"Do me a favor, yeah?" Harry suggested. "Go to bed."

"Harry, listen..." Paul stood up. "We need to talk."

Harry pulled away. "No, I need to pack. I need to wake Pen up, I need to be out of here by dawn.... I don't particularly want to see you in the light of day."

"Yeah..." Paul allowed.

Harry grabbed the keys off the table.

"Uh, I'll take a cab in the morning, so, uh..."

He held the keys out.

"Thanks for the use of your car, sir."

Paul scoffed and bats the keys out of Harry's hand and into the pool. Harry groans.

"Are we fighting?"

"I'm sorry," Paul started.

"You're too much. Fuck," Harry chuckled. He trotted down the line of the pool.

"Harry, come on," Paul tried to assuage him for a moment.

"Why don't you go wake my daughter up?" Harry demanded. "Huh? You can tell her to pack, and we'll get the fuck out of here right now."

He stood right in front of Paul and they looked at each other. Paul could barely stand it. The elation he'd felt at dinner had soured and transmogrified into a damp shame. The shame he was so used to, he _hated_ it....

Harry glared at him. "Did you fuck her or not?"

Paul closes his eyes and looks away. Harry scoffs softly. Paul looked at the pool, his heart racing.

"Did you fuck her or not?" Harry pressed.

"Did you fuck Marianne?" Paul turned the question back on him.

Harry chuckles. "It's not the same, man. Christ, she's a teenager. A fucking teenager!"

Paul blinked, but he was too floored to falter. "You know what the problem is—"

"You know what the problem is, is I gave you too much credit," Harry snapped. "We were friends. Better than brothers. Better than all those shits in their lofts talking about who the fuck cares what. And _now_ you just... you just tolerate me. Do you know how offensive that is to me?"

Paul bit his tongue. Harry continued, hands to his chest, leaning forward, nearly spitting with rage.

"Think what you want, judge the hell out of me, but don't _fucking_ tolerate me!"

Paul scoffs again.

Harry shook his head. "You don't deserve either of them."

"Neither do you," Paul replied.

"You have no idea of the shit that I got her out of," Harry insisted. "Off of."

"Yeah, well, I got her off you," Paul retorted.

"What?" Harry tilted his head. "I gave her to you."

Paul shook his head and looked to the side.

"You're obscene," he said.

"We're _all_ obscene," Harry cried. "Everyone's obscene. That's the whole fucking point. We see it and we love each other anyway."

"Love?" Paul sneered. "I was wondering how long it would take you to pull that—"

Harry struck him. Paul recoiled for a moment, then chuckled, holding his face.

"You hit me."

"_'You hit me,'_" Harry mocked.

Then Paul pushed him into the pool. Harry resurfaced, sputtering, and paddled over to the side of the pool again.

"Alright, Paul," he gave in. "I don't know what I'm doing either. Here, help me out, will you?"

Paul offered his hand. "Yeah, come on, I'm sorry—"

Harry snatched his hand and pulled him down into the water too. Paul stood and shook his head.

"What is this?" he demanded. "What are you..."

Then he realized that their fight had taken a turn. They were done talking, now they'll settle this like me. In the same way they'd fucked over the world, they would destroy everything around them, and in that moment, all of it felt just.

What was there to say? What could be seen, and what could be done? There was an extensive match between the two, one that Paul would regret to have won. After a heated struggle, he got Harry in a choke-hold and held him under water for too long. After Harry had gone limp for a while, Paul pulled him up and instantly realized what he'd done.

He tried resuscitating him, but to no avail. And by then Paul was too wired to think of what to do next. Call someone? No, they'd know he did it. Then, his mind went from reeling with grief and regret to being a whirlwind of plotting and fear and denial. He rushed out of the pool and took his clothes. He had to get out of here. He had to remove himself and any evidence anyone could have against him. But the self-loathing stayed.

* * *

Marianne was almost in her deepest sleep when she was disturbed by someone settling into bed behind her. The guest wasn't very ceremonious and obviously had little regard to whether they disturbed Marianne or not. Marianne opened her eyes and looked over her shoulder.

Mazzy knelt on the bed next to her, and she was trembling and crying. Marianne felt her heart ache.

"What's wrong?" she signed. Mazzy folded onto the bed and pressed against her chest, and Marianne wrapped her arms around her.

"I want to stay with you tonight," Mazzy sniffled. "C-can I?"

"Oh, darling, Paul's..."

"Just for a little bit?" Mazzy insisted.

Marianne swallowed the lump in her throat and gave in.

"Alright," she nodded. "Just for a while. But when Paul comes back, you'll have to move, alright?"

Mazzy didn't say anything; she just kept crying. Marianne decided that Paul could sleep on the couch or something in a worse case scenario. Or they could both stay in Mazzy's bed again. Marianne wasn't able to coax an explanation out of Mazzy in regards to her behavior, and although she was curious, she let it go. Whatever it was, if it was so important, it could wait until the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a reference to the song "Where Are You?" by Frank Sinatra, but I prefer/had in mind the cover by Julie London. Also, I published this chapter on Wattpad about a month ago, then I guess I forgot to upload it here, haha.


	8. Choking Games

By the time Paul returned to the house, the sky and world was glowing a moody blue with the fast-approaching morning. Paul jogged into the house and lingered by the pantry, fidgeting and debating what to do next. He was exhausted, he was wired, he couldn’t think straight. His heart still raced, his hands shook. What had he done, what had he done? What would Marianne or Pen or Mazzy—

No. It was done now. He’d done all he could. Now he had to be calm and wait out the upcoming storm. He had to be there for Marianne. No matter what happened. It was the least he could do after this train wreck of a vacation. With that in mind, Paul eventually managed to calm down and go back to the alcove to try to sleep the rest of the night away until... well, whatever happened next.

Paul tiptoed down the hall to the alcove. Mazzy was in the bed with Marianne. Marianne lied on her side curled close to Mazzy, whilst the younger woman sprawled unceremoniously on Paul’s half of the bed. A small portable CD player lay dead on the mattress between them with a pair of headphones draped haphazardly in a tangle. They might’ve shared, or maybe Mazzy just needed it to sleep. Paul didn’t mind any of that; he almost didn’t have the heart to wake her and reclaim his bed. He was just about to head out to the sunroom to sleep on the couch when Mazzy stirred with a lazy groan.

“Oh, sorry,” she mumbled, looking up at Paul. He tried to assure her and leave her there, but Mazzy quickly but groggily gathered her CD player and headphones and squeezed past him to get to her room. Paul watched her go, making sure she went right to bed instead of wandering outside. But Mazzy staggered into the wall once and ducked into her and Penelope’s room with minimal reception to what was going on around her. Paul let himself relax as much as he could manage and sat on the edge of the bed by Marianne. Marianne had rolled away from him, roused by Mazzy’s unceremonious leaving. Paul leaned down to kiss her shoulder, fighting to quell the shaking that had started in his hands again. What had he done.

* * *

Marianne was woken by Clara later in the morning. Marianne opened her eyes and looked sidelong at Paul. Clara didn’t usually wake them. What was Paul doing, couldn’t he see to her? Marianne’s eyes found him. Paul was naked, as he usually was during his morning routine, but a scratch on his hip alarmed her. She began waking up for real this time, just as Clara’s careful approach became adamant and near-frantic.

“Dead,” Clara snapped. “Dead.”

Marianne shot out of bed, only having time to haphazardly dress herself before darting out the door after Clara.

The body. She saw the body that had sunk to the bottom of the pool. Harry?! Harry. He couldn’t—this had to be a horrible nightmare! Marianne could hardly hear herself as she tore screaming down the path to the pool. She threw herself on her knees under the awning by the pool side. Her arms reached out to the water, splashing pitifully as Clara held her back, shouting about saving her voice. Her voice? Her voice?! As if that had anything to do with....

Marianne looked up. She saw Paul at the top of the path. She continued screaming, at him, at the world.... By now, Penelope and Mazzy had been drawn out of the house and now lingered at the top of the path looking down at the horrifying scene unfolded before them. Paul crouched by Marianne, covering her mouth and massaging her shoulders as she clung to the leg of the awning, sobbing and trembling. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from Harry. Her mentor, her friend, her former lover, her... She still loved him. She still loved him, why did this....

Penelope and Mazzy didn’t say anything to each other or to themselves. They didn’t know how to react. Neither of them could fully register what was going on. A part of them felt almost like they couldn’t, given Marianne’s already extreme (and reasonably so) reaction. Clara and Paul could barely take care of her now, so it wasn’t like they could handle the girls freaking out as well. Not to mention Mazzy’s history in overreacting, even though it was debateably unseen before now. Since the drinking was just an accident or whatever she’d put it up to...

Penelope turned her head to look at Mazzy to see how she was handling all this. Mazzy’s expression was shaken, but somehow reserved. She looked at Marianne so she wouldn’t have to look at the pool, and... it helped, in a small way. But Penelope caught how Mazzy pinched one of her fingernails and pulled in a bizzare, agitated habit. Oddly enough, when Mazzy was finally brave enough to look back down at the body, all she could think was, At least there’s no blood.

* * *

The police were called, and a team came out to collect the body and examine the scene. All the occupants of the villa gathered to the terrace with the police marshal. Marianne fidgeted impatiently while Clara brought a coffee tray to the table for them. Paul reached for a cup at once, whilst Penelope and Mazzy left it. The marshal eyed the small scar at the base of Marianne’s throat, then the bruise on her shoulder.

“Are you okay, madam?”

Marianne looked at him. How was she supposed to know what he said? Clara shook her head at Marianne as the marshal took a sip of the coffee offered to him. Penelope watched him in her way that could’ve been glaring. The marshal caught Paul staring at a point behind him and turned to observe Paul’s wet clothes and sneakers from the night before hanging on a clothes line. The police marshal turned his attention to Clara, speaking again in Italian.

“So Clara, first I need to know at what time Mr. Hawkes went swimming in the pool.”

He gestured to the others, and Clara nodded. She gave a bit of a nervous sigh as she tried to translate.

“What time... Mr. Harry....” She gestured as if she were swimming. “In the water?”

The marshal gave her an unimpressed look, but thankfully Paul spoke up.

“Well, he went out after dinner, around ten o’clock, and we were asleep before he came back, so...” Paul glanced at the marshal respectfully. Clara relayed the information, but Marianne had to shake her hand and correct her in fragmented Italian.

“After ten o’clock,” Clara told the marshal.

The marshal nodded and said something else. He gestured again to the others, and Clara once again tried to translate.

“What time you...” she pillowed her head on her hands, making a small snoring sound as she did so. “In the bed?”

She looked impatient, and maybe a little awkward. Why couldn’t they just understand each other? This was ridiculous!

Marianne held up ten fingers, then another two. Mazzy nodded with her, then Penelope. When the marshal turned to Paul, he gave his more complex lie of an answer.

“Uh... around one thirty,” he replied. “And then I took a sleeping pill.”

Clara looked mortified. She turned anxiously to the marshal.

“He took drugs.”

The marshal turned seriously to Paul. “You took drugs?”

“What? No,” Paul shook his head. “It’s medication. To sleep.”

“Oh,” Clara looked relieved and clarified to the police marshal.

At that point, the marshal had had enough. He had thirty people to question, and not enough time to waste here. He and Clara shouted for a moment before coming to the agreement that all four of them would come to the police station in town for further, more formal questioning.

* * *

Marianne could hardly look at Paul, and hardly look away at the same time. There was something so different about him as they headed to the car that afternoon. He was different all day, of course. As he was the morning after he got home from the hospital. But this difference was foreign to Marianne even then, and it didn’t sit well with her at all. In light of Paul’s unconfirmed activities of the day before, she....

What was she supposed to do? Not let it get to her? Paul barely did anything to defend himself, and where was Marianne in all this? She’d lost Harry hours before his time of death, all over Paul. It pained her. Loyalty, fidelity. She’d stayed faithful to Paul, all for him to.... She didn’t know for sure, of course. But what did that matter. There were other problems on top of problems to deal with, but even those were made harder to deal with in light of yesterday in particular.

A snake was slithering up the path again. Marianne clenched her teeth, marched over, and grabbed it by the neck to throw it aside. After that, the other three began to gather by the car. Marianne stared at Paul as he fiddled with the keys and climbed into the driver’s seat. He didn’t even look at her.

Marianne had never felt so alienated from Paul, ever. Not even when he came home from the hospital. She felt like she didn’t even know him. Did she even want to? What was her alternative? Was it truly yesterday what bothered her so much, or was it this morning? And Paul wasn’t doing anything to help his case, with how he never looked quite at her. He didn’t touch her today since her initial fit by the pool.

Marianne sat in the backseat of the car with Mazzy when they left for the station. Penelope rode shotgun. Marianne didn’t care if she was in Paul’s proximity or not right now.

* * *

Their attitudes changed at the station. In town, the party was reminded and had to recollect that in Pantelleria, they were a group of Americans in a foreign country. They were the outsiders, and that unified them, if for a short time. After handing their passports over for copying, they sat in a reception area by the open door of the station. Marianne sat with Paul and held his hand, even though he was too tense to reciprocate right now. He stared at the girls sitting across from them until he was brought to the marshal's office to be questioned.

Mazzy picked at the skin on her hands as the three women waited in silence. What were they going to say—what was their plan? Mazzy’s nails found reluctant purchase on her palms and fingers. Callouses from her years of roughhouse, built up to protect her, now drove her nearly mad as she struggled to peel them away.

“Don’t,” Penelope murmured, grabbing both of Mazzy’s hands and holding them so firmly it nearly hurt. That’s what Mazzy was after, wasn’t it? Mazzy leaned into her, grateful for the support. For once, as Marianne watched them, they actually did look like sisters.

Penelope looked up at Marianne, as if the older woman was encroaching on some sacred moment. Marianne took her chance to speak.

“Are you hurt?” she rasped.

“Of course,” Penelope replied. “I’ll be sad forever.”

She had a way of saying things where you weren’t sure if she was being genuine or being sarcastic. It was an adolescent trait—one almost all teenagers had in spade. Though if she was twenty-two already, Marianne feared she’d never drop it.

“No, I’m...” Marianne struggled to speak. “Yesterday... Paul, he has a wound...”

What was her game? Was she trying to confirm Penelope had seen it, or was she simply trying to establish a timeline for the injury?

“Did you see it?”

“Yeah.” Penelope tapped her passport to her hip. “Here, on the side.”

Marianne might’ve questioned her further, but someone turned the corner to speak sternly to them. Do you understand me? Don’t talk. Paul returned then. Penelope overheard one of them speaking on the phone about what was to be done with the body. She’d had no problem up to this point acting like a dumb English-speaking American up until this point, but something about his words and his tone really got to her. The body will go bad in this heat? Really?

“Show some respect!” Penelope seethed in Italian. “You’re talking about my father. Is it too much to ask?”

Marianne and Paul stared at her in disbelief. She knew this whole time?! When Marianne could finally tear her eyes away to look at the other girl, Mazzy just looked ashamed. Marianne was given little time to recover as she was gestured down the hall by the marshal, who smiled at her.

Now left on their own in the reception area, Paul, Penelope, and Mazzy sat preoccupied by their own thoughts. Penelope and Mazzy had separated and now lounged on opposite ends of the couch, and Paul stared at the two of them, grinding his teeth. He wasn’t acting any less tense than he’d been all day, and Mazzy wasn’t sure if it made her uncomfortable or not. It wasn’t like they could start a scene in the middle of the police station. But then again....

Paul leaned forward.

“You two were awake last night?” he asked. He knew Mazzy was, at least until after he’d gone out by the pool. Was she going to get them in trouble by saying she spent all night with Marianne?

Penelope stared at him, whilst Mazzy ignored him entirely. Another policeman entered the room, and Paul recoiled again. After yelling something about the refuges, the policeman moved on, and they were alone again. Paul leaned forward again. Penelope never looked away from him, tempting him and daring him in that way she was so skilled in.

“Please tell me,” he begged.

Penelope didn’t. Mazzy’s hands trembled.

In the marshal’s office, Marianne struggled to remain as vague and convincing as she could. She wasn’t sure what went on last night, but if she could get them all out of this without harm, she’d do it. All of a sudden, it didn’t matter to her if something had happened between Paul and Harry last night. Not in a legal sense, at least.

The marshal and translator assured her they weren’t intent on charging Paul with anything, let alone Harry’s murder. But there was a struggle, they’d said. Sand at the bottom of the pool indicated there were two or more people in the pool, like they’d moved around a lot. Struggled. Marianne could barely deny herself the possibility, even though the police marshal seemed happy enough to consider other possibilities. He’d find out what happened, but he had other problems to worry about right now. More pressing matters.

He spoke of the immigration crisis they’d been having on the island. Convicts were deported to the mainland, and those that remained here even outnumbered the locals. Just yesterday, more showed, and they were still occupied on all fronts trying to deal with them.

The immigrants. Marianne sat up a little straighter.

“When did you find them?” she asked.

“Twelve yesterday,” the translator replied. “And seven drownded at sea.”

True, the chances were slim—almost nonexistent. But maybe, if they were lucky and found no other evidence indicating otherwise.... But if they did. Was Marianne really willing to risk herself alongside Paul by lying to the police? Marianne didn’t have time to think about it. If she was careful, it wouldn’t be a lie.

Marianne looked at the marshal intently. “There is a path... at the house... it comes up behind the pool. You saw it?” She looked at the marshal. “And... anybody could... have come up there when Mister Hawkes was swimming and... we wouldn’t ever have heard them....”

She gave him an imploring look. Convincing as she was innocent. The marshal’s face betrayed no opinion on her insinuation, but as he stood up and pulled on his jacket, he spoke.

“They couldn’t be offended more than they already are,” the translator echoed.

The marshal walked to the door and took a packet of papers in his hand. Marianne stood anxiously. The marshal gestured to the translator, who gave her a run-down of the situation as it was.

“You and Mister de Smedt will stay here now, but the girls? They can travel if they want. But the younger, Penelope, need her mother to sign the letter because minors cannot travel without consent of the parents.”

Marianne turned sharply to the marshal. What did he mean minor? The marshal spoke. She’s a minor.

“She’s seventeen,” the translator clarified.

* * *

That afternoon, clouds stirred overhead and the villa was dark and somber. The inhabitants had taken up an eerie silence that seemed as if it couldn’t be broken. Even when Marianne called for Paul, her voice no more than a trite whisper, she was unattended and unheard. She could only expect as much with how much she strained her voice that morning.

Marianne had to go out and look for Paul. She ran across the yards and scanned every corner of the villa. She ended up being driven farther from the main house than she’d ever been before. Paul wanted genuine alone time. She walked barefoot and dressed in only a striped blue robe down paths and between buildings and ruins. She found him in a sparse orchard outside. Paul was sitting against a stone wall on some folded carpets, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. Marianne smiled faintly at him.

“Hey,” she mouthed.

Paul could only muster a half-hearted smile in return before he leaned back against the wall. He let out a ragged sigh. Marianne sat by him and took his hand, entwining their fingers and holding his arm. She looked at him soothingly and imploringly. What is it? Paul glanced around, at the dirt, at the wall, anywhere but at her. Marianne didn’t waver, grasping him more tightly. He shrugged and shook his head. Her expression became stern. What is it.

He dropped the cigarette.

“I tried to save him,” he whispered. “I tried, I tried.... I tried.”

He propped his elbow on his knee and held his temple in his hand as he continued to avoid her gaze. Marianne reached forward, cradling his head gently, and pressed her lips to his cheek. He grasped her arm.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry...”

She wrapped herself around him as he slowly broke down in tears and sobs. They rocked gently, and Marianne could only stare ahead. She’d withstand this. He grasped her arm. She could only withstand this. What other choice did she have? It wasn’t any use to be upset with him, now, was it?

* * *

Why did she think of this now? Probably because of what she’d said.

Ages before, it felt like ages. She remembered the last time she and Harry truly spoke before her surgery. Before all of it. She was in her dressing room, giving herself some final touches before going out on stage. Her eyes were painted over with a broad stroke of silver, and her hair was bound back. Someone knocked at the door. Harry entered.

“Huge fucking crowd out there. They’re turning people away.” He chuckled and lingered by her dressing table. “So, Derek tells me that ‘Worried About You’ is off the set list? Is that true?”

Marianne smiled up at him.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” His facial expression gave nothing away, but that made it all the more infuriating, because she knew he was offended by it. She flailed her arms in exasperation.

“Harry, don’t ask me to do sentimental things for you anymore, it’s not fair on Paul.”

“I’m not asking...” Harry sighed and looked at the wall behind her. “Stop that, would you? Just stop it.”

Another knock on the door, then a man poked his head into the room.

“Marianne, it’s time.”

“Okay,” she chirped, fiddling with a few more things and getting to her feet.

“It’s not about fucking Paul,” Harry continued once they were alone again. “And you know that.”

As she took her wig and turned to leave, Harry grabbed her arm. She wriggled free with a stubborn look. He grabbed her arms again, and she pushed on his chest until he reluctantly released her.

“Why are you resisting me?” he sounded like a kicked puppy. Marianne glared at him.

“It’s done.” She stood as tall as she could and glared at him. She shrugged. “Don’t let it upset you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a reference to the song "Choking Games" by Nicole Dollanganger.


	9. Lie Lie Lie

Penelope’s mother signed and sent over a form of consent to travel within the day. They each liked to think after such a tragedy Penelope’s mom wanted her daughter as close to home as possible. Although it was just as likely she didn’t want Penelope getting into trouble. Mazzy stayed home while the others went to the airport, and Marianne was oddly enough glad for it. She really wanted a moment alone with Penelope before they parted ways for good.

The brewing cloud cover finally gave to rain sometime along the drive there. Paul, Marianne, and Penelope ducked into the airport while trying not to get soaked.

"Well, do you want me to let you know if there’s some kind of service for friends or something?" Penelope asked, referring to the funeral arrangements for her father. 

Marianne handed Penelope her plane ticket and let her fists clench at her sides. A funeral service was the _last_ thing on her mind right now. 

"Why did you lie to us?" she demanded.

"I didn't lie." Penelope sounded so self-assured, as if there was no way Marianne knew better by now.

"You're not twenty-two, you're seventeen," Marianne corrected. Penelope blinked, obviously naively believing until now that she could've gotten away with that. Marianne glanced at Paul, but stayed focused on Penelope for the most part. "And you speak Italian? Yeah? Yeah."

Penelope sighed like a petulant child being lectured. Christ, how had they not realized sooner? Her spoiled attitude that Marianne could reckon to one of a child should've been a dead giveaway. But they just believed what they were told.

"And you sat there, over and over, with people..." Marianne flailed her arms in front of her in frustration as her voice began to give out. "_Struggling_ to _communicate_ with one another. Do you like to watch people having a hard time? Is that it?" She gave Penelope a stern but helpless look. "Is that the kind of woman you wanna be?"

Penelope sighed and shifted on her feet. "I would just rather be left alone. It's different."

"No," Marianne shook her head. "That's not different."

She waved her hands in front of her in a cancelling motion. Mazzy had only ever wanted to be alone, and she'd never done anything like Penelope. It was no excuse for Penelope to provoke people, to cause them to suffer. But Marianne sighed and gave Penelope a pleading look. She wanted a final chance for peace between them.

"I wasn't your enemy. None of us was."

Penelope chuckled, slung her bag over her shoulder, and said in a careless tone, "Don't let it upset you. Okay?"

Marianne faltered, then slapped Penelope across the face before thinking about it. At once, Marianne's jaw dropped, and she stared at the floor in immediate regret. Penelope looked back at her, then straightened her hair. She grinned at Marianne and walked between the couple to the scanners. At least Marianne felt bad about it. 

Marianne trailed a few paces behind Penelope while Paul tried to pull her back. Was she going to apologize? What was there to say or do? Penelope didn't look back at them as she went through security and out the door to the plane. Marianne lingered, still watching after her. Marianne went to one of the great windows along the far wall and watched Penelope cross the runway in the rain. How could this truly be all there was left of them? Marianne felt regret, but she couldn't determine what exactly caused it.... When Penelope finally reached the plane, Marianne finally turned away. There was no reason for them to remain; they needed to get back to the villa before the roads were flooded over. But as she left, Marianne unfortunately missed how Penelope looked over her shoulder back at them one final time.

* * *

On the drive back, Marianne and Paul were pulled over by a police car. With a glance over the back of her seat, Marianne recognized the police marshal in the front seat of the other car. It had to be bad news then. Paul parked the car, and Marianne clutched his hand.

“Don’t move,” she rasped. She got out of the car to meet the police marshal as he called for her. He held an umbrella up for her, which they both ducked under as he spoke to her in animated Italian. She had little idea of what he was saying, but he didn’t seem like he was coming to arrest them.

“Mario!” the marshal called to the other man in the police car, who came to meet them with a pack of papers in his hand. The police marshal took the folder and pulled a CD from on top of the papers. Marianne recognized the cover art at once—one of her albums. The marshal offered it to her with a felt marker and mimed writing.

“Oh,” Marianne mouthed with relief. At once, she started laughing weakly with relief, her chest tight with the motion until she nearly sobbed. “My name?”

The marshal nodded, grinning from ear to ear and practically trembling with glee.

“Your name?” she gestured to him.

“Carmelo,” he nodded excitedly.

Marianne uncapped the marker and, still trembling from laughter and sobs, wrote, “to Carmelo, my angel,” on the glossy cover. She gave it all back to him. It was his, all his. From her, to him. He said as much, with the zeal and enthusiasm she’d long forgotten now. Or at least she’d like to think that. After a moment, Marianne, with the marshal’s permission, retreated back to her car. Carmelo called after one last time just before she reached the Jeep, and she turned on her heel. Then Carmelo spoke in ringing, clear English so there was finally an understanding between them.

“You very nice people!” he called. “You can go home now!”

The tension over the last day finally releasing. They were free to go. Marianne beamed at him and waved her arms, mimicking a flying bird. They both skipped back to their cars. Marianne still laughed silently as Paul stared at her. Why on earth was she laughing like that at a time like this? The police car drove past them, with Carmelo waving as excitedly as before. Marianne waved back, more grateful than she’d ever been for anything before, as they drove on.

Her voice trembled. “He’s a fan.”

Paul blinked at her, then looked at the police, then back again. And he finally understood what she was laughing about. They were free. That was the end of it. The two reeled in silence from it all, then looked at each other, as if to ask, “what now?”

* * *

After they got home from the airport, they all needed alone time. And neither of them care for another. Mazzy stayed in her room listening to music. Paul stayed in the alcove sulking. Marianne knew he wanted to be alone, and she didn’t want to be with him right now. She ended up sitting at the edge of the drained pool outside. The intermittent heavy rain had refilled the pool not even an inch in most places. Marianne didn’t know what they’d d with it. After the pool was drained and Harry’s body collected, the tape was taken down and the scene left like a normal, drained pool again. They could refill the pool, but why would they want to. Marianne knew they couldn’t recover a sense of normalcy. Maybe if they just pretend Harry went home with Penelope alive and well. And Mazzy stayed behind for what? Marianne looked down at the beaded bracelet around her wrist. The one Mazzy had given her just because. Why wouldn’t Mazzy just go the fuck home like the rest of them?

In a moment of impulse and anger, Marianne yanked the bracelet off her wrist and threw it into the pool. It floated in the shallow water briefly before sliding down the current and tucking into a corner of the pool. Marianne immediately felt bad about it and got up.

Her feet slid out of her sandals clumsily as she entered the near-empty pool. Water had built up from the rain and now ran in shallow currents only about an inch or two deep in some places. The water wasn’t cold, but it was harder to walk in than she’d expected. She stamped over to the corner where the bracelet ended up and held it close to her chest for a moment before sliding it back on her wrist. There was no reason to be mad at Mazzy.

She crossed her arms, just now realizing how cold she was getting, and began shuffling to the other side of the pool to get out. She made it only halfway before she slipped and collapsed face-forward on the cement. She didn’t move for a moment, relishing and paralyzed by the pain in her limbs. She knew she couldn’t stay there, but what motivation could she muster to do otherwise?

Marianne turned her head and stared at the wall of the pool. The bracelet on her wrist was the only color in this dull place. She’d get out in a minute. She just wanted one more moment to herself. Marianne folded one arm under her head to prop herself out of the water and closed her eyes, savoring the sweet calm rushing of the water and the rain.

* * *

Paul wandered into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water from the tap, then dumped it out in the sink after a moment of deliberation. He leaned heavily on the counter, sighed, and ran a hand down his face. After their initial fit of laughter, he and Marianne spent the rest of the ride home in silence. Neither of them had made plans to leave yet. They didn’t plan anything. And Paul wasn’t sure if he could bring up any ideas yet.

His hand fell to the counter, and he finally noticed a spread of a couple instant photographs lying haphazardly by the sink. Why’d Mazzy leave them here? Didn’t she care for them at all? Given the vast darkness in the photographs, she’d more than likely made some mistake shooting. But she would've thrown them away by now if that was the case. Paul picked up one of the pictures and looked at it a little closer.

Now that he got a good look at it, he recognized she’d been taking pictures of the pool at night. The blue-green light of the pool light in the water created fragmented shapes in the photo. Paul’s stomach sank with dread. Two people were illuminated in the water, viciously entangled, water and motion blurring the image.

This couldn’t prove anything. Paul couldn’t make out the figures with certainly, but he knew she’d been taking pictures of him and Harry during their fight. And if she took photos of it, that meant she saw _everything_. But why didn’t she say anything? The police marshal had let them go; that meant they didn’t find anything. And it wasn’t like they hadn’t regarded Paul as a suspect. And now, if Mazzy decided to bring it to their attention, the photograph wasn’t clear enough to prove anything, right? But then again, how many white guys were there on Pantellaria?

He was done for if she decided to report it. But if she had the evidence, the eye witness testimony, and the incentive, she would’ve mentioned it by now. Or did she have an ulterior motive in keeping it to herself? And then leaving them out in the open like this. Maybe it was for Marianne’s sake....

Paul didn’t get a chance to think on it longer.

“Marianne?”

Paul shoved the photos in a drawer and turned around quickly just in time for Mazzy to turn the corner. She didn’t give him any identifiable expression, but it still left a sour taste in Paul’s mouth. She was just as stuck-up as Penelope, in his opinion.

“We’re back from the airport,” Paul said.

“Oh,” Mazzy nodded.

“The police marshal caught up to us before we got home. He said we’re free to go. So, if you don’t have any business here, you should probably book a flight out.”

“Are you leaving?”

“No, we’re just...” Paul looked away and shifted his weight, obviously struggling to remain patient. “Well, when _are _you leaving?”

“I don’t know. I’m still feeling a little under the weather, so I don’t—”

“Well, then maybe you need to see a doctor. It’s been four days; you should be over it by now.”

Mazzy gave him a disgusted, incredulous look. Paul sighed and softened his tone.

“Look, Marianne’s very stressed right now. She really needs to—we both need to be alone so we can deal with this. I understand that you’re trying to help, but....”

He looked back up at her. She blinked patiently, daring him to say it.

“I think it would be best for everyone if you just went home.”

Mazzy raised her eyebrows and walked past him into the hall. He pressed against the wall to avoid her.

“I’m sure Marianne can tell me that herself. Where is she? Marianne!” she started to shout.

“Don’t, stop it,” Paul wandered after her as she headed down the hall. “She’s resting.”

Mazzy stopped in the doorway o the alcove and Paul peered over her shoulder. Mazzy’s knees felt weak and her arms numb. A shot of adrenaline made her head buzz.

“Where is she?”

To Mazzy’s relief, Paul shuffled past her to look in the room. Mazzy was half-bolting down the hall, calling anxiously for the woman. It was raining outside, and the car was still in the driveway. Had she gone out for a walk and gotten stuck somewhere? Why didn’t she say anything before going out? Marianne should’ve been in the house, and since she wasn’t... Mazzy feared the worst.

“I’m gonna check out front!” Paul called.

“’Kay!” Mazzy headed out the back door to the patio, then the pool, calling for the missing woman the whole way. With each passing moment, her fear and dread skyrocketed. What if something had happened? What if another “accident” had occurred? Mazzy couldn’t think any farther ahead than that. She couldn’t bear to think ahead even a moment until she knew for sure whether or not Marianne was okay.

From the terrace to the garden, down to the drained pool. That’s where Mazzy finally saw her, just a bundle of fabric and flesh sprawled face-down on the bottom of the empty pool.

“Marianne!” Mazzy screamed. She scrambled and slid down the path, stumbling over the slick rocks in her ill-aligned flip flops until her shoes fell off her feet. Mazzy’s voice was gone, and each word was a hushed, pathetic whimper. “Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh no....”

Mazzy stepped into the pool and collapsed on her knees next to Marianne, sobbing and shaking her.

“Marianne! Marianne, please—”

Marianne stirred at once, and Mazzy was so overcome with relief that she nearly started crying all over again. Marianne rose onto her hands and knees easily enough and didn’t seem any more than just a little groggy. She was lucid. She was unharmed. She was okay.

“Maz...?” she whispered. “What...”

She looked around until she remembered where she was and what happened. The station, the airport, the bracelet.... She felt a bit foolish. Otherwise, she felt numb, a little distant from herself and the world. Mazzy squeezed her shoulders.

“Fuck, you’re freezing,” Mazzy pulled Marianne to her feet and half-carried her out of the pool.

Marianne clung to her as Mazzy led her up to the house. Now that she was upright and on the move again, she realized how dizzy and nauseated she’d become. She shivered, but she felt hot and cold all at once. Was she ill? How long had she been out here? She heard Mazzy shout for Paul as soon as they got in the house.

“I found her! She was out in the rain....”

Paul shouted something back that Marianne didn’t quite catch.

“Yeah,” Mazzy’s voice was a little more controlled. “I’m gonna get her in the bath. Make sure the bed’s made for her....”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a reference to "Lie Lie Lie" by Metric. Just one more chapter to go.


	10. Til Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title refers to the song "Til Death" by Japanese Breakfast.

Mazzy checked the thermometer again.

“Her fever’s one-oh-one and climbing.”

She dipped a rag in cool water and wrung it out before placing it on Marianne’s forehead. After Mazzy found her in the rain last evening, Marianne had been fighting off a fatigue-induced sickness that had finally taken hold of her by morning. Now Paul and Mazzy sat on either side of the bed worrying over her. Marianne stirred, opening her eyes. She reached for Mazzy’s hand, looking at her for only a moment before dozing again.

“I’m gonna check the cabinets,” Paul said, getting to his feet. Maybe there was some medicine they could use. He remembered what Harry had said about doctors on the island.

Paul searched the cabinets in the bathroom and the kitchen. Since traveling with medicine was illegal in some cases and a pain otherwise, he and Marianne hadn’t thought to pack much. Now, he was afraid she’d need something stronger than Ibuprofen. He supposed he could go out to the village and pray he’d have some luck there. He could call Clara, but he didn't want to bother her since she was getting a couple days off after the... incident. Maybe he’d ask Mazzy before heading out. She was well-stocked for herself the night she drank her problems away. He was just about to get her when she appeared in the doorway to the kitchen with an empty pitcher in hand.

They regarded each other silently until Mazzy went to the sink to get water.

“Did you find anything?” she sighed impatiently.

“I don’t know,” Paul sneered, holding up the bottles he’d found. “I don’t suppose you speak Italian too?”

Mazzy slammed the pitcher on the counter and turned to him.

“I’m _not_ Penelope,” she fumed. “And for all it’s worth, I’m barely her sister to begin with. Yeah, I knew she was lying to you, but how the fuck was it any of my business?”

Paul set his jaw. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Do you ever listen to anybody? I said it wasn’t my business.”

Paul pressed his lips together in a thin line. He considered backing out of the conversation now. It would be just like him. But his withholding nature was definitely partially at fault for their situation.

“I saw the pictures, Maz.”

She blinked. She was surprisingly level-headed about it. Then again, if he was going to hurt her or threaten her for knowing, he probably would have done so already. Now he just seemed dejected and ashamed as before.

“Like I said,” she shrugged, but then she changed her answer. “I didn’t want Marianne... to be alone. But she doesn’t really deserve you, with all the trouble you cause.”

He rolled his eyes and pushed away from the counter. Her voice raised.

“You have no idea what she gave up for _you_.”

“What, her career?” Paul was shouting now too. “I didn’t have anything to do with that—”

“_The other day, _you idiot!”

_Justice for Harry._ That name haunted him. Paul slammed a hand on the counter—he was sick of hearing about it! And he knew she was right. When he glanced at her, she was trembling, though her expression was as aloof and absentminded as ever. She grasped the handle of the pitcher in a white-knuckle grip. She didn’t know if she’d hit him with it or run if he moved again. Luckily, the situation was forcibly de-escalated by another person.

Marianne tiptoed around the corner with a trembling hand on the door frame keeping her upright. She looked blearily between Paul and Mazzy. She’d heard the commotion and came to investigate. She couldn’t deny she was relieved to see they were both alright, but.... Paul didn’t move to approach her. He barely looked at her. Of course, what more did she expect?

After a moment of watching the other two flounder, Mazzy went to Marianne’s side. Marianne’s bleary, confused, kicked-puppy expression had become a glare, reserved and stuck to Paul.

“Come on,” Mazzy took Marianne’s shoulder and tugged her along. “Let’s get you back to bed. I’ll bring you some food in a bit...”

Marianne hugged Mazzy’s middle and kept an eye over her shoulder for Paul. He never even looked; he was so ashamed.

* * *

By the time Mazzy had made a modest lunch of chicken broth and Ibuprofen for Marianne, Paul was long gone. He’d taken the car without even a word of where he was going. Mazzy half-lied to Marianne and said he’d mentioned going into town for medicine, but Marianne couldn’t be comforted. The meal was left on the bedside table to go cold while Marianne sobbed, burying her face in the pillows. The weight of grief over the last few days, then the last few months, then the last few years all seemed to crash down on her, inducing a full-on melt down. But Mazzy stood unselfishly by, available for comfort and everything else.

Harry was _dead_, Marianne had had that awful fight with Penelope—what if the girl was ruined? And now Paul left without even telling her anything. To get drugs, Mazzy claimed, but what if he _didn’t come back?_ Mazzy lied in bed next to Marianne, hugging her, rubbing her back, and letting Marianne cry against her until Mazzy’s shirt was soaked with tears.

“Shh, shh,” Mazzy murmured infrequently. “If you keep this up, your voice will never recover.”

Of course. Her voice. She’d gotten so used to not speaking, in a way. Her “reinvention,” as Harry had called it. Truly, once the surgery was over, she felt almost like she’d stepped into the shoes of someone else. It was easier that way. It was easier to look forward to a future where she could be something new and different, lest her old life be unattainable after all her efforts. Now after the last couple weeks, that was a definite possibility. Ironic, after everyone’s efforts to see her old self.

Every little thing that had gone wrong over the last few days alone—and oh, how they went as wrong as they possibly could—haunted Marianne. She was restless, helpless, and after what felt like hours of pouring herself out in the arms of the girl she hadn’t known a month ago, exhausted. Once she’d calmed down, Marianne could’ve passed out for the next few hours, but Mazzy wouldn’t let her ruin herself in the poor man’s way. Mazzy held her up and gave her water and the medicine. By that time, Marianne had gathered herself enough to apologize.

“Sorry,” she signed. It felt like years since she’d signed anything, even though it had only been a couple days. She probably couldn’t speak if she tried to.

“It’s fine,” Mazzy breathed, and it was the most genuine thing she’d said during her entire stay. “Are you okay now?”

Marianne nodded, although it was a generous assessment of how she was feeling right now. Mazzy accepted it, though, and crawled out of bed.

“Okay,” she kissed Marianne’s forehead. “I’ll be right back.”

Marianne watched after her with an expression of slight confusion tugging at her face. She leaned back against the wall limply until Mazzy returned a moment later. Mazzy handed her a small stuffed cat, reddish-golden in color and with fur so thick and soft it nearly swallowed Marianne’s fingers when she took it.

“Here,” Mazzy said. “Her name’s Goldie.”

“Goldie?” Marianne mouthed inquisitively. She was glad for the distraction, at least.

“Yeah, I named her after my grandmother.” Mazzy settled back down on the bed by Marianne. “You know, that’s not actually the original Goldie. My mom’s friend’s dog got a hold of the real one and lost her in the woods somewhere. I was so upset for so long that Mam got me another one just like it.”

Marianne clutched the cat to her chest and buried her face against Mazzy’s chest again. She took a breath to calm herself. Mazzy didn’t mean to make her cry again, but she couldn’t help it.

Marianne tilted her head up and kissed Mazzy. She cradled the back of Mazzy’s head with one hand and held the stuffed animal with the other. She kissed Mazzy like they were lovers, and Mazzy hardly reciprocated. Perhaps she was trying to start something as an act of roguish reclamation.

“Marianne....”

Marianne pulled away, tracing her fingers against Mazzy’s shirt and glancing between her eyes and her lips. Mazzy seemed nothing but sympathetic.

“Do you really think this would make you feel better?”

Marianne’s face soured, and for a moment she looked as if she might kiss Mazzy again. She pressed her face against Mazzy’s neck, her breath trembling.

“I don’t want to do this while you’re crying,” Mazzy murmured, shifting her arms around Marianne to hold her more securely. Marianne pulled away and opened her mouth—she couldn’t even muster a squeak.

“I’m sorry,” she signed, her hands working shakily as if they might give out like her voice.

Mazzy’s voice was barely a whisper, so quiet that Marianne had to really listen to hear her.

“It’s okay, Marianne.”

And it only comforted her as much as she let it. Marianne practically collapsed against Mazzy’s chest and left it at that. She didn’t have any energy left to cry or fuck anyway.

* * *

Paul returned, thankfully, with a paper bag of groceries in hand. He hadn’t found any medicine he was willing to bring home, but he restocked on chicken broth and soup, cold packs, crackers, and other assorted foodstuffs that served as the staple of sick day food. Mazzy came out to meet him as soon as she heard him. She was relieved he’d come back at all, let alone in once piece, and with groceries to boot.

“Any luck?” she asked.

“I got her some soup, tea...” Paul replied. “I’m afraid that’s about it. How’s she doing?”

“Her fever broke,” Mazzy replied. “She’s just tired now. Thanks for going into town.”

He looked up at her. He might not’ve been the best at reading the room, but he could tell she seemed far too content for the events of the day. He gave her a look and might’ve inquired, had they not been interrupted once again by Marianne traipsing down the hall to meet them.

“Hey,” Paul greeted her.

Marianne smiled with tired delight. Though she was clearly exhausted, she couldn’t conceal her joy that he was at least willing to look at her. For a fleeting moment, he seemed ready to move forward.

“Hey,” she mouthed and went to him. After a moment’s embrace, Marianne pulled away with a wavering expression on her face. Paul’s eyebrows drew together.

“What is it?” he asked.

Marianne opened her mouth, but when she tried to speak, her vocal chords grated painfully, triggering a coughing fit. Marianne winced and straightened again, grasping his arms and staring at him intensely. He stayed fixated on her; he knew she had something to tell him. But how could she in her state?

Mazzy put her hand on Marianne’s arm.

“Can I?” she proposed quietly.

Marianne nodded gratefully. Paul gave them both a concerned and almost irritated look. Marianne’s hands began moving, forming signs Paul could bare recognize.

“I’d hoped to tell you sooner,” Mazzy spoke out loud, translating for Marianne as she signed. Paul glanced between them again. Mazzy nodded to Marianne, who she refused to look away from, and Paul followed her gaze. Marianne only ever looked at him, faint tears welling up in her eyes.

“I wanted to tell you with my own voice.” A glint of sorrowful humor entered Marianne’s eye as quickly as it disappeared. When she continued, her hands periodically trembled or froze like they were prone to doing when she had trouble with her words. Or in this case, signs.

“_We need to... separate for a while.”_

Paul felt a tightness in his chest. Dread, denial, anger, resentment, then shame all flashed across his face. But he said nothing. Marianne continued to sign.

“Mazzy and I are leaving tomorrow. I want to be alone after...” Mazzy glanced down. “Everything.”

“Alone?” Paul raised his eyebrows. “Or with Mazzy?”

Marianne gave him a pained expression, then signed.

“I need a suitable translator for the next few weeks. She’s willing to provide the service.”

Paul scoffed and looked away, but Marianne tapped his arm firmly until he looked at her again. She could tell his was beginning to draw into himself; he listened to her, but he didn’t allow himself to process what was being said. She supposed it was the most masculine way to hold back tears. Marianne continued to sign. Her hands moved almost erratically now, but her facial expression said it all.

“I love you. I love _you_. I’m sorry....”

She had a million reasons why she was doing this, but they all sounded disingenuous now. And she wasn’t brave enough to do that to Paul now. They stared at one another for a moment, still and silent because no words deserved to be between them. She inclined her head, and slowly, their lips met in a final, passionate kiss. Paul squeezed his eyes shut and wrapped his arms around her as tightly as he dared. He had to leave it. He knew he had to leave it because he knew that relentless pursuit of old loves got people killed.

When they finally released each other, Paul just nodded, and Marianne felt a rush of relief. It still hurt, as it probably would for some time, but she knew this was what they needed.

“Thank you,” she mouthed, wiping her tear-stained face.

* * *

Marianne and Paul both felt out of place in the same bed that night, so they never confronted the possibility. Marianne moved into Mazzy’s room. “For a change of scenery,” she’d claimed. Plus, she wanted to see all of Mazzy’s photos before they were packed for the flight tomorrow. Paul turned in early that night, and Marianne knew it was so they didn’t have to see each other intimately once more.

She put it out of her mind lest she change her mind about leaving. Mazzy brought up a good point, and Marianne had made her decision. It wasn’t important now. She didn’t have to do anything. She was just getting used to that.

That night, Marianne was restless from sleeping most of the day and helped Mazzy pack late into the night. Mazzy packed her clothes and personal items, whilst Marianne took down Mazzy’s modest wall of photos. When Marianne happened upon the “evidence”—the pictures Mazzy took during Paul and Harry’s fight—she froze long enough that Mazzy took notice. Mazzy glanced up and grimaced when she saw the photos.

“Ah, that’s....”

Mazzy didn’t get the chance to finish before Marianne grabbed a pair of nail scissors from Mazzy’s suitcase and snipped the photo down the middle. Mazzy winced, but Marianne just wrapped the pieces in tissue and threw them in the small trashcan by the side of the bed. They shared a look, having a conversation with just their eyes, and agreed to leave it for good and forever.

Later on, Mazzy found one last thing she’d been afraid to confront. Marianne Lane’s CD album, right on the bedside table where Harry had left it. Marianne saw it in Mazzy’s hand and grinned a little ruefully. Mazzy debated putting it in the trash as well, but it felt a little ghoulish now. Was it really a bad part of the past just because she couldn’t go back to it?

Marianne took her wrist and signed when Mazzy looked up.

“What’s wrong?”

Mazzy’s face crumpled, though she didn’t cry, as she pressed her face on Marianne’s shoulder.

“It’s the last thing he gave me,” she whispered, though it felt cliche. Marianne kept an arm wrapped around her and rubbed her arm comfortingly. She couldn’t speak or sign where Mazzy would see, so she kissed Mazzy’s hair until she was calm again. Mazzy sighed and pulled away.

“Better?” Marianne signed. Mazzy nodded, so Marianne returned to the bed. Mazzy ran her finger along the plastic case. He’d wanted her to hear it.

“Marianne?”

Marianne looked back at Mazzy.

“Do you... ever think you’ll sing again?”

Marianne regarded her seriously. It was the first time Mazzy ever brought up her career. She’d totally avoided it until now. And in regards to her question, Marianne honestly wasn’t sure how to answer. With the last few days alone, her voice had taken a hit. Not to mention how she’d been disregarding the no-talking rule altogether. Even if her voice did recover, she wasn’t sure if she’d want to go back to music. Without Harry or Paul, what was there for her? Then again, maybe that was a perfectly good reason _to_ go back to music.

But now, she didn’t know her answer. She knew it would trouble Mazzy, but she gave an earnest answer. She owed her that much.

“I don’t know,” she signed.

“Okay,” Mazzy nodded. Her expression was something between accepting and manic, like she was hyping herself up for the unknown.

However, unlike before now, she didn’t worry about it. Worry would never get her anywhere, she’d realized. And she let that fact carry her through as she put the CD in her portable player and put her headphones in her ears.

_Fin._


End file.
